Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist 0415847419, 9780415847414

Citation preview

ROUTLEDGE LIBRARY EDITIONS: RESPONDING TO FASCISM

ENTER MUSSOLINI

ENTER MUSSOLINI Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist

EMILIO LUSSU Translated from the Italian by MARION RAWSON With a Preface by WICKHAM STEED Volume 4

LONDON AND NEW YORK

First published in English 1936 This edition first published in 2010 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2011. To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk. © 1936 Methuen & Co. Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 0-203-85021-1 Master e-book ISBN ISBN 10:0-415-57699-7 (Set) eISBN 10:0-203-85012-2 (Set) ISBN 10:0-415-58075-7 (Volume 4) eISBN 10:0-203-85021-1 (Volume 4) ISBN 13:978-0-415-57699-4 (Set) eISBN 13:978-0-203-85012-1 (Set) ISBN 13:978-0-415-58075-5 (Volume 4) eISBN 13:978-0-203-85021-3 (Volume 4) Publisher’s Note The publisher has gone to great lengths to ensure the quality of this reprint but points out that some imperfections in the original copies may be apparent. Disclaimer The publisher has made every effort to trace copyright holders and would welcome correspondence from those they have been unable to trace.

ENTER MUSSOLINI Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist

by

EMILIO LUSSU Translated from the Italian by MARION RAWSON With a Preface by WICKHAM STEED

METHUEN & CO. LTD. LONDON 36 Essex Street W.C.2

This book was first published in Italian under the title of ‘Marcia su Roma e dintorni’ This translation first published in 1936

PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION by WICKHAM STEED

I KNOW of nothing better than this book in all that has been written upon Italian Fascism. It is an unconscious work of art, a little masterpiece that should outlast its subject. In form it is a personal record and a fragment of history. In substance it is an essay in the humour of things, grim and comic, and it is as free from bitterness as from striving after effect. What might easily have become a satire on human nature has resolved itself into the psychological study of an epoch which posterity would have found a riddle harder to read had not Emilio Lussu anatomized the folly of its wisdom with his ‘squandering glances’. He is a Sardinian. Throughout the war he fought gallantly on the Italian front. Not till the enemy was laid low did he doff his uniform and return to his work at the Bar, and to political life as a Member of Parliament for his native island. He saw the beginnings of Fascism and the conditions under which it arose. Soon he found the ‘home front’ no less adventurous than the first-line trenches had been, and demanding a higher degree of moral courage. Fearlessness, physical and civic, and imperturbable self-control are so much a part of his nature that he seems unaware of them. Only when others lack them is he mildly astonished. Thus wordy indignation is as alien to him as any itch to dramatize the part he played amid the brutal scenes which marked the downfall of Liberal Italy and the rise and triumph of Mussolini and the Blackshirts. In his account of these matters he persuades by reticence and emphasizes by under-statement. He is fortunate in the moment when the English version of his book appears. Had it been issued soon after he wrote it, four or five years ago, it might have passed almost unnoticed. In the late summer of 1929 his name had, it is true, made a certain noise in the world. His escape, with two of his fellow-prisoners, from the inferno on the island of Lipari to which Mussolini had consigned them was too daring an exploit to be altogether ignored. A Member of Parliament, a distinguished professor of political economy, and the nephew of a former Prime Minister could not be snatched from Mussolini’s clutches without causing a little stir in countries where human right and freedom were still esteemed. So the wellplanned escapade which ended the durance of Emilio Lussu, Carlo Rosselli, and Fausto Nitti was a sort of nine days’ wonder. Mussolini winced. Characteristically, he sought to avenge himself upon Professor Rosselli’s English wife until the British Foreign Office stayed his hand. But presently those minds which, even in Great Britain and the United States, were be-glamoured by Fascism, returned to their worship of the ‘Duce’, and ceased to take thought for the morrow. The deadly straightforwardness of Lussu’s story would have irked them. They could hardly have dismissed it as a piece of vain girding at their hero by yet another refugee from an Italy whose people had got what was probably good for them or, at any rate, might be wholesome if it was not good. Lussu would have made Pope’s lines ring hollow:

Preface to the English Edition  vii For forms of government let fools contest Whate’er is best administered is best.

Without audible demur eminent Britons and others, some of them responsible statesmen, therefore continued to pay homage to the Italian Dictator. Had he not ‘saved Italy from Communism’ and taught discipline and order to a notoriously undisciplined and dishevelled nation? Were not Italian trains now punctual? Had not beggars ceased to molest tourists— for whose delectation Italy, of course, exists—in the squares and streets of Italian cities? In the light of these great things why worry over a few hundred beatings and murderings, a few thousand arrests or twenty thousand deportations? Gold-braided diplomatists, millionaire newspaper-owners and their obedient scribes, captains of industry and literary tufthunters knew better than to trouble about such trifles. And to their chorus of approval the great ‘Duce’ himself added his self-adulatory effusions which the ‘World Press’ eagerly bought and prominently displayed. But now? Not all is well with the fair land of Italy. Even Mussolini comes in for criticism. His Abyssinian adventure, undertaken in search of indispensable glory for his bankrupt system, has cooled the ardour of his foreign admirers. ‘The fellow must be mad!’ say those who yesterday bowed low at his feet. ‘How will it all end? It may be merely bluff; though threats to smash Gibraltar, to give the British Fleet in the Mediterranean something to think about, and to invade Egypt from Lybia, are at best a sorry sort of joke. Why do the Italians put up with him? They must see that he is leading them to disaster! It is really time to take stock of things.’ This is precisely where Lussu’s book comes in. If people in English-reading countries wish to take stock of things, they cannot do better than heed Emilio Lussu’s truthful tale. Then they may ask: ‘Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?’ Lussu shows how the thorns and thistles grew, and that they were there from the first—as discerning Italians, and some others, have been telling Mussolini’s dupes for years past. Men of standing and weight like Count Sforza, Don Luigi Sturzo, Professor Salvemini, Francesco Luigi Ferrari, and many another outcast from the Mussolinian paradise have uttered warning after warning that the day of judgment upon Fascism could not be for ever delayed and that it might well be a dies irae. Their voices, crying in the wilderness of European and transatlantic indifference, ceaselessly proclaimed that crime is crime, be it big or small; that not all is gold which glitters; that neither spendthrift outlay on spectacular public works nor an air force whose wings should ‘darken the Italian sky’, nor an omnipresent secret police, nor the practice of delation as a fine art, nor the ‘Corporative State’ with an educational system wholly bent upon the titillation of national vanity and the training of the young in a militarist spirit, can atone for the lawless brutality of government by armed faction or purge systematic unfreedom of its iniquity. These prophets of the truth would have no truck with the plausible untruth, spread through a hundred propagandist channels, that ‘Fascism saved Italy’. They affirmed that individual human right—especially freedom to think, to speak, to print ideas of value—and representative control over public finance are saner and sounder modes of national life than uniformity enforced by a party militia, an obsequious judiciary, an enslaved Press and an artificial ecstacy of devotion to a ‘totalitarian State’ and its ‘Leader’ which finds its f­ullest

viii  Preface to the English Edition expression in the nincompoop cries: ‘A noi!’ ‘Eja! Eja! Alalà!’ or in the brainless doggerel of Giovinezza. Their warnings went unheeded. The time was not yet ripe. Now, perchance, Lussu’s quiet tones may get a hearing. They deserve to be heard, for they tell of what was and what is. Best of all they carry conviction that not all men of Italian mind and Italian blood have lost the virtue which shone resplendent in the Risorgimento, though it needed, maybe, a severer ordeal again to prove its quality against a worse than Austrian or Bourbon tyranny. In this virtue lies the hope of a better future for the Italian people. Among those sons of Italy who have ‘gone outside’, there to work and to suffer for their faith in her—or to die, as not a few of them have died, in penurious exile—her ancient virtue persists. Nor is it dead within Italy herself. The day of her redemption from infamous oppression may be near or less near. Dawn it assuredly will. And on the morrow of that dawn not many will be found to have deserved better of their country than Emilio Lussu, who, tried in the fiercest fire of adversity, has come through it with health, indeed, impaired yet with fortitude unshaken., LONDON December 28th 1935

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

IN writing these pages it has been my wish to record the political events that have taken place in my country during recent years as I personally experienced them. I have made no attempt to write the history of Fascism. I have simply related certain episodes in which I was either directly or indirectly involved. The story is that of an Italian who had scarcely finished his university studies at the outbreak of the Great War and who, having fought all through it, took part as a lawyer and a Member of Parliament in the subsequent political strife that convulsed his country. My generation is that of the early Fascists. Many of their leaders had been my friends at school, at the university, or in the army. As this book is bound to arouse hostile criticism should it fall into Italian hands, I have taken great care to include nothing for which documentary evidence cannot be produced. The substantial truth of the facts I have recorded is not to be denied. It is true that any given fact may be susceptible of more than one interpretation. The man who knocks another on the head retains a different impression of the blow from that of the one who receives it. But the blow is a blow none the less. I have described Fascism as I saw it, in its rise and in its triumph. Many of its aspects no doubt escaped me; to others I have probably awarded undue importance. But this is unavoidable in a writer who was himself involved in the conflict. Time alone, perhaps, will bring a wholly objective judgment to bear on the events of these years; to-day, we are each one of us influenced both by our political beliefs and by our passions. We can but testify to what we have seen and record our personal impressions. Others must judge. The foreign reader, in following these experiences of a democrat and an opponent of Fascism, will form an idea of the political crisis in Italy, of Fascism and of anti-Fascism. He will also doubtless come to conclusions concerning the state of civilization itself in our country. But it must be remembered that it is unwise to make generalizations. The political struggles of any particular time are not necessarily typical of a people, and the cultural and civil attainments of a nation cannot be deduced from a few years of its history. E.L. PARIS, 1931

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

THIS translation of Signor Lussu’s book Marcia su Roma e dintorni has been to a certain extent revised and enlarged for publication in England. I wish to express my gratitude to the author for his kindness in placing additional material at my disposal. M.R.

CHAPTER I

I WAS still at the front with my battalion, on the borders of Yugoslavia, when the Peace Conference met in Paris. At that time the Italian Army was wholly democratic in its sympathies; had we not been proclaiming for five years that we were fighting in the cause of liberty and justice? President Wilson was a popular figure among the combatants, and great was their disappointment when his fourteen points, one by one, succumbed as they came in contact with European diplomacy. The soldiers had always had little love for the diplomats; almost as little as for the General Staff. When Signor Orlando and Baron Sidney Sonnino, who represented the Italian Government at the Conference, failed in their efforts to obtain observance of the terms laid down in the Pact of London, by which Italy was awarded Dalmatia, there were many heated discussions among the officers in my sector. Even the general commanding my brigade, who was a friend of the Socialist leader Bissolati and therefore democratically minded, as generals sometimes are in Italy, declared before a large meeting of officers: ‘It is true that we have won the war, but these politicians of ours will end by making us feel we have lost it.’ The country was in a ferment Mussolini, once a Socialist of extreme views, was now writing violently imperialist articles in his newspaper. But at that time he was very unpopular with the fighting forces. At the Congress of Italian ex-combatants held in Rome in the summer of 1919 by the first soldiers to be demobilized, he was not even allowed to speak. The capital with which he had started his paper was said to be of dubious origin, and he was accused of having written in support of the war with an enthusiasm that he had not shown in taking part in it himself. Nor were the soldiers impressed by the much-advertised fact that he had been wounded, for once cured this should not have prevented an ‘interventionist’ from returning to the trenches, Among the combatants there was the very greatest contempt for all those men who had made propaganda for the war but had managed to keep out of it themselves. Demobilization took place gradually. Millions of soldiers returned to civilian life, weary of war and craving for peace. But, as so often happens with fervent supporters of peace, they were possessed of a profoundly warlike spirit. Human psychology is full of contrasts. During the preceding years the exact opposite had been the case with all those who had been loudest in demanding war. They had borne their share in it in the most peaceable m­anner, either making a pretence of fighting or not fighting at all The country was unable to offer any occupation to thousands of these demobilized soldiers. Disappointment and rancour were the result. In addition, the cost of living was continually rising. Were the ex-combatants to starve while the war profiteers flaunted their wealth? If this were peace, then war was a thousand times to be preferred! All these factors added to the country’s unrest. During the war Signor Salandra’s Government had promised that ex-combatants should be given land on their return, and succeeding Governments had repeated these promises. As an officer I had often discussed with the men in the trenches the circulars issued by the Government and the High Command

2  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist on the subject of ‘land for the peasants’. Now that the war was over, thanks to them, the demobilized peasants demanded land from the Government and the big landowners. But the Government had other things to think of and the landowners now protested vigorously against the politicians who had so generously offered to give away property that did not belong to them. Land, they considered, is only given to the peasants when a country is ruined, that is, when a war is lost, not won; and they pointed to Russia as an example. Let the victorious soldiers conquer land for themselves—but in other countries; and they urged the Government to pursue a policy which resulted in armed expeditions to Asia Minor and Georgia, raids on Dalmatia and upheavals in Tunisia. The inevitable happened. In several districts landless ex-soldiers, together with the p­oorest of the peasants, invaded the large estates and took possession of uncultivated land, Mussolini, at that time, supported their action. The unrest in the rural districts was nothing compared with that in the towns. While the cost of living rose wages remained stationary, or increased only very slightly. The rich traders, for whom the war had ended only too soon, continued to make excessive profits, while in many towns famine was at the very door. This led to the looting of shops and violent conflicts. ‘Down with the oppressors of the poor!’ wrote Mussolini in his paper. ‘The people must rise and strike at those who are starving them.’ The mass of organized labour was swayed in the economic conflict by political ideas. The example of Russia made revolution appear desirable and easy to achieve. Every dispute between employers and workers ended in a strike, and even partial strikes, which were very numerous, were looked upon by the leaders as useful practice for the great general strike that was to come. The Socialist Party, to which the bulk of the workers belonged, was weakened by internal dissension; some of its members demanded immediate and violent revolution, some advocated gradual reform, and others (the most noisy) did not know what they wanted. The party leaders made great efforts to reconcile the conflicting factions, but only succeeded in adding to the general confusion. Among the industrial workers, feeling against the war was particularly marked. They had not fought in it, but afterwards they continued to wage a wordy warfare on the subject, and their resentment took the form of showing open contempt for all those who had seen active service, as though the previous four years had been nothing but a picnic for the fighting forces. This attitude largely contributed, later on, to alienating the sympathies of the army and the ex-combatants from the workers. I witnessed some of these demonstrations against the war. They were certainly remarkable. No country has expressed greater anti-war feeling, posthumously, than Italy. If, before hostilities had begun, the workers had voiced only a fraction of the hatred they manifested for the war once it was over, it may safely be assumed that our country would never have come into it at all. A strong contingent of malcontents consisted largely of ex-officers and of arditi. The arditi were picked men used exclusively during the latter part of the war as shock troops. They were never made to take their turn in the trenches, but were kept at the rear in comparative comfort, until the military commanders needed men for particularly dangerous exploits; they were then rushed to the front and thrown into the vortex. Once demobilized they found it impossible to settle down to a life of peaceful work. In war-time they had been looked on as heroes, but now they were not wanted, and grew

Chapter I  3 rebellious and bitter. Just as they had once been contemptuous of their brothers in the infantry, for the dullness and discipline of their life in the trenches, so now they poured scorn on democracy—in other words, government by the majority—on bureaucracy and the rule of law. If they had been offered land, they would not have known what to do with it They thirsted for action. Many officers had earned promotion during the war by merit or through easy, accelerated courses of training. Originally students, clerks, or artisans, they had become lieutenants and captains and had commanded companies or battalions. Would any young man find it easy to return to college after having possessed such authority, or to go back, without a feeling of humiliation, to earning five hundred lire a month as a clerk? Civilian life was impossible for them. Moreover, many had become accustomed to a social atmosphere superior to that of their own families. How could they take up normal life again, threatened by financial insecurity, they who had won the war? Could they, who had risked their lives every day, now settle humbly down to work, at the behest of those who had done very well during the war by remaining out of it? It was these arditi and ex-officers in particular who served to render the political crisis so acute. Wavering between the parties of the extreme Left and the Nationalists, they were soon to be found in the ranks of D’Annunzio’s legions at Fiume, and after D’Annunzio’s failure, among Mussolini’s Fascists. It was a unanimous conviction in Italy that Fiume was an Italian city. The Peace Conference thought otherwise. So Gabriele D’Annunzio, the poet and war hero, rose up in r­ebellion, armed with sword and lyre. D’Annunzio had for years exerted a great influence over the educated youth of Italy. As a man of ultra-refined taste he had always taken great care that his actions should be governed by aesthetic motives. Before the war, being deeply in debt and pursued by his creditors, he had found himself in an impossible position. Another in his place might have been tempted to blow his brains out, but D’Annunzio has never let his nerves get the better of him. He shook the dust of his ungrateful country off his feet and retired to France, where he lived in princely state at Arcachon. But in May 1915 he reappeared in Italy, and began to incite the Italian youth to take part in the war. His creditors again gathered round him, but they were execrated as enemies of the country, and the war soon swallowed them up. From time to time their voices were to be heard pleading for justice, though without success. When the war was over what was there for D’Annunzio to do? The problems of demobilization existed for him too, complicated by the fact that he could not live without a sumptuous retinue. France could now offer him only meagre hospitality: Arcachon was no longer a suitable retreat. And in Italy his creditors, with an extraordinary lack of decent feeling, were still waiting to pounce on him. At this critical moment D’Annunzio learnt the decision of the Peace Conference refusing Fiume to Italy. He was overcome with disgust. Debtor, poet and warrior became fused in the patriot chosen to save his country from humiliation: he planned his enterprise and on September 12th 1919, with a company of arditi and two battalions of soldiers, he occupied Fiume without having fired a shot. The gesture made less impression on the Peace Conference, which was accustomed to raids on other people’s territory, than on public opinion in Italy. Signor Nitti, who had

4  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist s­ucceeded Orlando in June, was taken by surprise. The incident created an awkward s­ituation, because D’Annunzio had proclaimed the annexation of Fiume—in the name, it goes without saying, of the Italian people. Powerless at the moment to do more, the Government ordered a blockade of the city. The poet installed himself there in the role of condottiere, harangued the populace four times a day, organized expeditions and acts of piracy, and proclaimed a new political constitution on corporative lines. He negotiated mysterious pacts in the Balkans, in Japan, and even with Soviet Russia, sending meanwhile lengthy messages to Italy, Europe, and the world in prose and verse. Every now and then he threatened to march on Rome. The army regarded the whole thing as lunacy. But the discontented ex-officers, the students, Nationalists and unemployed all cried in admiration, ‘This is the right kind of politics!’ and hurried to join the leader at Fiume, which Mussolini’s paper proclaimed would henceforth be the capital of Italy. A little later, in November 1919, a general election took place in Italy. D’Annunzio held it up to contempt. Mussolini took his stand in opposition to democracy in general and the Socialists in particular, exalted the Fiume expedition, and presented himself for election at the head of a Fascist ‘list’, with a revolutionary programme. He polled only four thousand votes. The Socialist and Catholic Democratic Parties were the most successful at the polls, but no party was returned with a complete majority in the Chamber. The internal situation became more dangerous every day. Unemployment and strikes increased. Signor Nitti was forced to resign in June 1920, and was succeeded by Signor Giolitti, who had been opposed to the war, and who, old though he was, seemed the only political leader capable of dealing with the situation. But by September the conflict between employers and workers had become worse than ever; the workers insisted that their wages should be raised to meet the cost of living, and the industrialists refused even to discuss the matter. Strikes were declared by the workers in the metallurgical trades, and the employers replied with lockouts. Then the workers occupied the factories and began to run them on their own account. This produced a great impression in Italy and abroad. Was Italy on the brink of Bolshevism? Mussolini declared that for his part he did not care whether the factories belonged to the workers or the industrialists. But the middle classes were thoroughly scared. A friend of mine, who was a university professor and to-day presides over one of the most celebrated learned societies in the country, was in a state of panic, obsessed by the conviction that the ‘Bolsheviks’ would carry off his wife, since the Press had recently announced that the Communists in Russia were nationalizing women. I remember also the apprehension of a distant relative of mine, a big landowner, who, terrified that he was going to lose his property, kept repeating, ‘My poor children! how will they live?’ As a matter of fact, he had no children, and still has none, so far as I know. Both these gentlemen are now prominent Fascists. Imagination always plays a great part in times of political stress. Many people believed during these days in the existence of an ‘air force’ belonging to the Italian ‘Bolsheviks’. I chanced to know the commander—a strange character—of this air force, which consisted of a solitary Farman stolen from an aviation depot; for tactical reasons, he kept it divided between Leghorn and Rome, the engine being stored In a hayloft at Rome and the rest of the machine in a cellar at Leghorn. Signor Giolitti was unperturbed. He kept the troops in their barracks and waited. When the industrialists and workers found they could not escape from the deadlock they had

Chapter I  5 themselves created, he intervened in the role of peacemaker and brought about some measure of agreement. The workers were satisfied with the Government’s promise to give the trade unions a share in the management of the concerns employing their members; and the industrialists took possession of their factories once again. Bolshevism in Italy was at an end. Mussolini wrote, a few months later, ‘To say that there is still a danger of Bolshevism in Italy is to allow fear to prevail over truth. Bolshevism is over and done with.’ In December, fortified by this success, Giolitti sent an army corps and a naval division against Fiume, negotiations for a peaceful settlement having proved fruitless. D’Annunzio had sworn to die like Leonidas at Thermopylae, rather than surrender. The ‘legionaries’ put up an obstinate resistance in the advanced posts, and although they were inferior in numbers counter-attacked with courage. But when two shells from the Andrea Doria struck D’Annunzio’s palace, the poet, who was inside it, changed his mind and hastily raised the white flag. So ended the Fiume adventure. Revolutionary movements in Italy were so far not making much progress. The Communists, a very small minority, had broken off relations with the Socialist Party. D’Annunzio retired to his hermitage at Gardone, where he set up a sumptuous court. But Mussolini did not give up. He gathered together the discontented from every camp, organized them into ‘squads’, and then, declaring that the country was in danger, offered this private army of his to the industrialists and landowners, as their only defence against Bolshevism. The Fascist organizations prospered. From words they soon passed to deeds, making armed expeditions against the peasants and workers, and looting or burning the offices of their unions. The principal object of attack was the Socialist Party, but the Christian Democrats came second, while the Liberals and Democrats remained spectators, not dissatisfied with what was going on. Giolitti favoured the movement. Having failed to put the Socialists into power, he now planned a new course of action: first, to arm, spur on, and protect the Fascist ‘squads’ in their offensive against the Socialists; then, at the general election, to allow a certain number of Fascist deputies to enter the Chamber as part of the Government majority; and finally to dominate these unruly forces with the superior strength of the State. He was successful in the first of these three manœuvres; in the third he tailed. The Fascists rebelled against their protector and took control of the State themselves. This, in brief, was the history of the ‘March on Rome’. It is to Giolitti, the Piedmontese statesman, that the Fascists owe their overwhelming success. They might well have raised a monument in his honour to show their gratitude, but they prefer to ignore the part he played in building up their fortunes. When the Fascist movement appeared to be well started, Giolitti dissolved the Chamber and prepared for a general election. He included several Fascists in the Government list, in addition to a majority of Liberals and Democrats. The election took place in May 1921, in an atmosphere of violence and disorder. I was an opposition candidate in Sardinia, where, as in many parts of Italy, there were as yet no Fascist organizations. The election took place in comparative quiet, and I only remember one incident. At Villacidro, in the province of Cagliari, a Fascist unit was formed at the last moment. Several Conservatives and Democrats joined it, together with various groups of workers who were mostly in their pay. When I arrived there in the course of my campaign I was received, much to my surprise, with a hostile demonstration and prevented from speaking.

6  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist My friends attempted in vain to defend the principle of free speech, but they were promptly in their turn accused of making a disturbance and found themselves taken into custody by the police. I remained alone, surrounded by a threatening crowd. The chief of the local police explained to me that it was only out of his great personal regard for me that he had not ordered my arrest too. In the confusion, one of the demonstrators managed to remove a wallet, containing several thousand lire, from my pocket. Realizing at once what had happened I pointed out the thief, but a more noisy demonstration than ever followed. ‘A chi l’Italia?’ shouted the leaders. ‘A noi!’1 yelled the crowd. It was in vain that I tried to point out that this was not a question of Italy but of my money. My protests were not even listened to by the chief of police, who merely remarked that these were political incidents. There was nothing to be done about it. As I drove off, I could hear the voice of a Fascist orator making an eloquent speech in the piazza. As far as I could gather it seemed to be mostly on the subject of ‘moral v­alues’.

1

  A popular Fascist warcry: ‘To whom does Italy belong?’ ‘To us!’

CHAPTER II

THE Government ‘bloc’ was victorious at the general election, but only by a narrow majority. Fascism made considerable progress, and Mussolini was returned, having polled one hundred and seventy thousand votes. Thirty-three Fascist deputies accompanied him when he entered the Italian Parliament. They were not many in comparison with the five hundred belonging to other parties, but their strength lay in action, at a moment when every one else was indulging in a surfeit of talk. ‘We are not a parliamentary group but a fighting force,’ Mussolini proclaimed after the elections. He gave immediate proof of this, on the opening of Parliament, by driving the Communist deputy Misiano from the Chamber. As was well known in Italy Misiano had been a conscientious objector during the war, and indeed it was largely owing to this fact that he had been elected a deputy. The Fascists considered such a circumstance incompatible with the national dignity. Many of their own number had been elected simply because they had killed Socialists. They could not therefore brook such a scandal, and Signor Misiano was assaulted within the very walls of Parliament. I was a witness of this unforeseen and sudden exploit. Signor Misiano was sitting in an arm-chair in one of the corridors leading to the Chamber, discussing the political situation with two colleagues. The Fascist deputies, already agreed on their plan of action, were strolling about in small groups. Only Signor Mussolini was absent. He never moves from his position of command behind the lines, and has never taken part in any risky enterprise. He merely gives his orders. The condottiere of modern times can stay at the telephone; bloodshed is left to the lower ranks of his army. A Fascist deputy who had been one of my comrades during the war approached me with evident agitation and asked me if I had a revolver. ‘No,’ I answered. ‘Why? Do you want to shoot yourself?’ Before I had had time to comment further upon such an unusual parliamentary question, another of the Fascist deputies, Signor Gay, brandished a revolver and shouted ‘A noi!’ It was the signal. In a moment Misiano was surrounded. The Fascists covered him at once and ordered him to put up his hands. I have always been ready to believe in the sincerity of any man’s convictions, and I was confident that the moral reasons that had led Signor Misiano to refuse to take part in the war were no less worthy than those that had inspired me to fight in it. Indeed, I have always felt that to a man of honour deserting in war-time requires greater courage than heroism in battle. My first thought at this moment, therefore, was that Misiano would refuse to obey and would be killed. I sprang forward to prevent a murder. But Misiano saved himself. He raised his hands at once. The Fascists, still covering him with their revolvers, searched him, and took away a small automatic, which he had in his possession. They then started to push him towards the main entrance of the building.

8  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist Meanwhile, several deputies and parliamentary officials had appeared on the scene. The Fascists would not surrender their victim. In a narrow corridor, through which Misiano would have to pass, I suddenly saw, concealed behind a column, Signor Caradonna, the Fascist deputy to whom the murder in Apulia of the Socialist deputy Di Vagno some months later was imputed. Motionless, his face pale and a revolver in his hand, he was waiting, in ambush. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked him in alarm. He did not answer. There was no doubt that he was expecting the Communist deputy to pass that way. I had time to warn some of my colleagues, and Signor Misiano left the building by another door. The impression made on the Chamber was immense. In parliamentary history the affair was without precedent. The Communists had come first, but later it was to be the turn of the Socialists, the Christian Democrats and the Liberals. The latter, unaware of the fate in store for them, adopted an impartial attitude and discussed the incident with much tolerance. In the Chamber the atmosphere was electric. The debate on the Speech from the Throne proved violent. Throughout the country strikes and disastrous conflicts between the F­ascists and the Socialists or Christian Democrats continued. Signor Mussolini made his first speech in the Chamber on June 25th. He had taken up his seat at the back, on the extreme right; high up and separated from the rest of the deputies, he seemed like a vulture crouching upon a rock. ‘I must declare at once,’ he began, ‘that my speech will be reactionary in character. It will be reactionary because I am anti‑parliamentarian, anti-Democratic and anti-Socialist.’ The Socialists interrupted to remind him that he had been a Socialist for twenty years. Mussolini gave them a contemptuous look and went on: ‘And since I am an anti-Socialist, I am resolutely anti-Giolittian.’ At this point it was Signor Giolitti who protested. The aged parliamentarian stared at the speaker in astonishment, as though about to ask him what game he was up to. They had been on the same side only a few days previously. Mussolini proceeded to criticize the Cabinet’s conduct of foreign and internal affairs, and to outline a programme of government. ‘The State must be reduced to its simplest possible form. It must have a strong army, a strong police force, a well-ordered administration of justice, and a foreign policy suited to the nation’s requirements; all the rest can be left to private activity.’ Evidently the future Fascist Corporative State was not as yet envisaged. Turning to the Communists, who were interrupting frequently, Mussolini remarked, ‘I know the Communists. Some of them have derived their theories from me. These friends or enemies of mine have assimilated my ideas badly, but such ideas are unsuited to small minds. Like oysters, they are tasty but indigestible!’ Thus every party came in for its share of abuse. It was clear that the Fascists wanted to rid themselves of the irksome protection of Signor Giolitti. On July 4th he was overthrown by the combined votes of the Fascists, the Liberals, the Socialists, and the Communists. Giolitti had failed. When he fell from power, most of Italy was already in the grip of civil war.

Chapter II  9 He was succeeded by Signor Bonomi, who, as Minister for War in the previous Government, had been responsible for furnishing arms to the Fascists. Nevertheless, in the confused political situation of those days, Bonomi was regarded as a man belonging to the Left. He had belonged, in fact, to the Socialist Party, and still acted with the Independent Reformist Socialists, a small Right Wing group. When he became Prime Minister he imagined that he could deprive the Fascists of the arms that he himself had given them. But being a man more suited to carrying out orders than to issuing them, he thought it sufficient to address circulars to the provincial prefects. By temperament incapable of making strong decisions, he contented himself with half-measures, and only succeeded in divesting the State of the last remnants of its authority. While every self-respecting politician was protesting in the name of morality and of the rights of Parliament, the Fascists gained ground every day. To display their strength they held their third and hitherto most important National Congress in Rome. It took place in the great auditorium of the Augusteo in November 1921, and was presided over by General Capello, an influential personage, not only in the army but in Italian Freemasonry. Later he was to turn anti-Fascist and was condemned to penal servitude for complicity in the Zaniboni attempt on the ‘Duce’s’ life. It was at this Congress that the Fascists formed themselves into an organized political party. Mussolini laid down the lines of their new programme in a speech that ended by invoking the names of Dante Alighieri and Saint Francis of Assisi. I was present at this meeting, screened from sight in the corner of a box, having obtained admission through the help of a Fascist university student who had served under me during the war. He was the son of a rich landowner in the Valle Padana, where Fascism was in a state of permanent warfare with the Socialist and Catholic peasant organizations, and although he knew I was anti-Fascist he was still much attached to me. At this time in Sardinia, where I came from, there only existed small Fascist groups of no political importance, and it was therefore natural that I should have many questions to ask my former comrade-in-arms. ‘We have set fire to eighty offices of the co-operative societies,’ he told me, ‘and we have destroyed all the local Socialist headquarters. Every Saturday evening we carry out punitive expeditions. We have the upper hand at last.’ ‘And the authorities allow you to do all this?’ ‘The authorities? But we are the authorities.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘It’s the same thing. The authorities are on our side. They are tired of red flags and S­ocialist insolence. They had no authority.’ ‘It seems to me that now they have less than ever.’ ‘But we’re restoring order.’ ‘By means of fire and armed assaults?’ ‘It’s the only way. Talk was getting us nowhere. What we needed was arms, and now we have plenty. Rifles, machine-guns, cars, and lorries.’ ‘Who gave them to you?’ ‘Partly the police, partly the landowners.’ ‘So that now you can do as you please, with impunity?’ ‘Oh, no, we have to face risks. Look!’ He showed me his right hand, which bore the scar of a recent bullet wound.

10  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist ‘Those ruffians gave me this during a night attack.’ ‘What ruffians?’ ‘The peasants.’ ‘But were the peasants attacking or attacked?’ ‘We were attacking, of course. And we’ve succeeded in putting them in their place now, for good. Their hey-day is over. Think of it! Every peasant was earning up to forty lire a day.’ ‘And now?’ ‘Ah, now things are very different’ ‘But what do they earn now?’ ‘Fourteen lire. And that’s too much.’ Seeing my astonishment he continued, ‘Do you realize that after the war, if I went out wearing my medals, they used to laugh in my face?’ ‘And because of that you reduce their wages to fourteen lire and shoot them in their own homes…’ ‘Oh, it’s easy enough to criticize. But you’d understand if you had lived among us. They wore clothes just like ours, and the ploughman’s daughter went about looking smarter than my sister.’ ‘Don’t let’s exaggerate. But in any case, do you really think that bad enough to deserve death and starvation?’ ‘The world was going awry, and we have set it straight.’ The streets of the city were full of Fascist squads mainly from Tuscany and the Romagna. No fewer than twenty thousand Blackshirts from various provinces were concentrated in Rome. As I walked along with my friend I bought an anti-Fascist paper, but no sooner had I opened it than I was surrounded by a group of Blackshirts who snatched it from me with threats and insults. Before I had recovered from my surprise my friend came to my help and insisted on the paper being restored to me. ‘What do you think of such behaviour?’ I asked him, as we went on our way. He seemed mortified at the incident, but explained: ‘You see, among us, the reading of anti-Fascist papers is regarded as grave provocation. The leader of a peasant union was killed not long ago for appearing one Sunday in public with a Socialist paper, out of defiance. Of course, it made the Fascists lose their heads….’ The behaviour of the Fascist squads gave rise to various incidents in the city. Mussolini had said at the Congress: ‘The people of Rome are neither Fascist nor anti-Fascist. They like to be left in peace, but if roused they can be pugnacious. Let us give no provocation, but defend ourselves if we are attacked’ Evidently he based the theory of violence simply on the possibility of its being employed with profit. Nevertheless, provocation occurred, and blood was shed. The Fascists had hastily to leave Rome amid general indignation. Those belonging to the city did not number at that time more than about a hundred. The Congress of November 1921 gave the signal for the resumption of violence throughout Italy. There were many deaths on both sides. Signor Bonomi, powerless to control the situation, was overthrown in February 1922, and succeeded by Signor Facta.

Chapter II  11 Signor Facta owed his parliamentary position wholly to the blind fidelity with which he had always served Signor Giolitti. In all my political life I have never known a more optimistic man. A committee of deputies, myself amongst them, went to him to protest against the Fascist excesses, with particular reference to an occasion on which some peasants had been killed in broad daylight, and their assailants, though known, not proceeded against. The Prime Minister, who was also Minister of the Interior, listened smilingly to a description of the deed as though we were speaking of births rather than deaths. Then, still smiling, he answered us: ‘I cherish the hope that everything will turn out for the best.’ In Italy he has gone down to history with the name of ‘Prime Minister Cherish the hope’. In Signor Facta Italian parliamentary democracy found its true expression. He was its very incarnation. The tree was bearing fruit. ‘We want a dictator’ shouted the Fascists, and others with them. From that moment Mussolini regarded himself as the ‘Duce’, and prepared for the March on Rome, But though Parliament might be discredited, Fascism was still hated by the greater part of the nation. Armed expeditions and murder subdued the opposition in certain provinces, but they could not win the country over. General Badoglio, who was Chief of the General Staff, and very popular, declared in an interview that gave a shock to the whole Fascist movement, ‘Give me full powers for a week and no trace of Fascism will remain.’ But Signor Facta continued to cherish hope. Thus every day the situation became more favourable for a coup d’état.

CHAPTER III

DURING 1921 the Fascists began to organize themselves in Sardinia. They had little success at first. The commune in which, during the election, I had lost both votes and wallet was among the first to have a regular ‘Fascio’, but its members were not numerous. I went there only once, this time without money in my pockets, and I observed no trace of political activity. Fascism was resting on its oars after its electoral successes. The town of Iglesias and its vicinity is a mining centre of some importance. The mining of antimony, lead, and anthracite is the only organized industry in the island, and disputes between the owners and the workmen’s unions were therefore inevitable. A prominent leader on the side of the workers was Signor Angelo Corsi, a parliamentary deputy. He was a Reformist Socialist—that is to say, in England he would have belonged to the Right Wing of the Labour Party. During the war, as mayor of Iglesias, he had organized relief for the destitute families of soldiers with such success that his methods were copied in many other districts. In 1931, when the King visited Iglesias, Signor Corsi met him with representatives of the workers’ organizations and showed him round the mines. As a result of this action he was censured by his party executive, but he had great authority with the workers and the monarchical gesture on his part had to be passed over. The Fascists, after careful consideration, solemnly proclaimed him a ‘Bolshevik’. In the mining area there were not, as yet, more than about fifty Fascists, all workmen. Their employers had raised their wages and exempted them from work, and they thus had both money and time to spend. They were led by two young men named Otelli and Mocci, who were paid by the mineowners for their work of organizing the Fascist units. The first I knew well, because during the war he had served under me as a lieutenant. Afterwards he had failed to find an occupation that he considered suited to his rank as an officer; the mineowners solved this problem for him. He had been silent and prudent in war-time, but as a Fascist he became surprisingly loquacious and intrepid. The other, Mocci, was a very queer character. He too had fought as an officer in the war, but after demobilization had lived precariously as a lawyer, doing unimportant work in the law courts. It was very difficult for him to obtain regular employment because, although possessed of a certain culture, he had spent several years in a lunatic asylum and everybody knew it. He used to explain that he had been there for the purpose of literary study and psychological investigations. Mild by temperament, when excited he became violent. At these times, if his wife were at home, he would beat her; if she was absent he would organize punitive expeditions against ‘Bolshevik’ workers. Usually, on these occasions, he was brought back on a stretcher with injuries of some description, and his wife, who was a good-hearted woman, would not know whether to be glad or sorry that she had been out of the house. He was also a poet, and loved on all occasions to proclaim his great contempt for politics. But politics brought him more profit than poetry ever had. All who knew him were of the opinion that his course of literature and psychological investigation had ended much too soon.

Chapter III  13 At bottom he was a good sort, who, though powerless to restrain his own excesses, repented them to the point of tears. Later on, at the time of really violent conflict between Fascists and anti-Fascists he used to declare that he would have my head. One evening he came to my house. It was very late and I naturally imagined that he was accompanied by a force of Fascists. His wife must be away from home, I said to myself, as I let him in. He entered timidly, and I, ready to defend myself, asked what it was he wanted. Much embarrassed, he politely begged me to excuse his presumption, and asked me for my opinion on a translation he had made of one of Horace’s odes. Under these two leaders the Fascists at first made no great progress in the mining area. But they became a great nuisance. Every day they held public meetings, distributed Fascist papers, and gave provocation of some sort or other. Armed with big sticks, they waited for the workers as they left the mines, and shouted: ‘Down with Russia!’ ‘Death to Bolshevism!’ ‘Long live the King!’ In the earlier conflicts the workers, taken by surprise, had the worst of it. But subsequently the tables were turned, and the Fascists were disarmed and beaten with their own clubs. In the course of time quiet was re-established at the mines, but the Fascists continued their activities in the city. Signor Corsi could not leave his house without meeting hostile groups of Blackshirts. If he stayed at home the Fascists, tired of waiting for him, demonstrated outside his house, shouting, ‘Death to Lenin!’ In their opinion the Socialist deputy was the very incarnation of the Communist r­evolution. Sometimes the police intervened. On these occasions the Fascists would shout in chorus ‘Long live the police!’ which greatly flattered the representatives of the law, unaccustomed as they were to being cheered in the course of their duties. On one occasion a commissario of police even went so far as to call out to the Socialist deputy, ‘Signor Corsi, cease your provocation of Italy!’ thereby becoming an idol of the Fascists. Despite these indisputable proofs of activity, the Sardinian Fascists did not gain a great reputation among the leaders of the Fascist organization on the mainland. When Mussolini, after the elections of 1921, made various declarations of a republican tendency, all the Fascists in the Sardinian mining area sent a telegram to the King affirming their loyalty. Mussolini replied with a telegram designating the Fascists of Iglesias as ‘scoundrelly and idiotic’. This caused an upheaval throughout the area. Several of the miners’ leaders were attacked unexpectedly and seriously wounded. Signor Corsi himself was assaulted in the street in broad daylight, and was barely able to defend himself. Thus a state of guerrilla warfare broke out once more. The Fascist section at Cagliari was a different matter. Cagliari is the capital of the island, and the populace were unaccustomed to political violence. The Socialists were few, though well organized. During 1919, when shops were being looted, they had formed themselves into disciplined bands to prevent disorders. Later they took no part in the occupation of the factories. The party to which I belonged, composed mostly of ex-combatants, was the principal opposition party in the town, and it was difficult, therefore, for Fascism to be very aggressive, since the excuse of ‘Bolshevism’ was wholly lacking. The Blackshirts c­onsequently seemed to concentrate on literature and sport.

14  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist One of the most prominent Fascists in Cagliari was the Marchese Zapata. He belonged to the Siete Fuentes family, and the genealogical tree in his palazzo reminded the forgetful that he was descended from a Grandee of Spain. However this might be, he was not a great man in Sardinia, and he lived unostentatiously on the remains of his family fortune. In his youth he had taken no part in politics. ‘From my ancestors,’ he used to say, ‘I have inherited only one political art: that of leadership.’ He had not fought in the war because the doctors had declared him unfitted to stand its hardships, but all the same he was fond of extolling war and its heroes. In 1916 he had given a reception in his house at which he appeared clad in the armour of one of his sixteenth-century ancestors. Although the weight of the helmet and cuirass was almost too much for him, he wore them heroically till the end. It was on that occasion that he exclaimed, ‘Why are the Moors no longer in Spain? I would gladly give my life and my patrimony to drive them back to Africa.’ This remark became famous in Cagliari. It was made at the very moment when the Austrian Army had broken our lines and invaded the Asiago plateau. But above all he was celebrated for his passion for poetry. Once when a baby he was fond of cut its first tooth he composed a poem in thirty-two canti in honour of the event. So representative a figure was not to be passed over by Fascism. The Association of Fascist Intellectuals unanimously nominated him its president; upon which he composed another poem. The second leading Fascist was also a marchese. He belonged to the younger branch of the Manca di Tiesi family, feudal lords in the eighteenth century. A naked arm in the family crest gave credence to the theory, supported by the family, that they were descended from Mutius Scevola, a hero of ancient Rome. The local Fascists brushed aside the possibility of controversy on this point and regarded him forthwith as an authentic ancient Roman. He was very different in temperament from the literary marquis. Indeed, it was only after becoming a member of the Fascio that he endeavoured to learn Latin, though with little success. He hated literature. As an officer in the Alpini he had gained a great reputation during the war through having in the course of a few hours drunk all the brandy issued to his company. In fact—why not admit it?—he was exceedingly intemperate. He fought bravely in the war and afterwards had very little to live on, having inherited nothing from his ancestors but the above-mentioned family crest. The Fascists offered him a timely s­olution to his difficulties. The third Fascist leader, in age though not in importance, was Signor Nurchis, son of one of the local industrialists. This young man too had fought in the war, as a result of which he had suffered from shell-shock. He was very loquacious though extremely badly educated, but his frequent mistakes in grammar were regarded by those who did not know him as a consequence of his unbalanced condition. He was a born revolutionary. Once when I was speaking in public he interrupted me by shouting, ‘We want deeds, not words! Long live the revolution!’ ‘What revolution?’ I asked him. ‘The revolution. If you’ll give us a revolution we’ll follow you.’ At all costs he had to have a revolution. The Fascists promised him one, so he joined them. I knew him well. Because of the war, he professed great admiration and friendship for me, although I had become his political opponent. ‘My devotion to you is so great,’ he

Chapter III  15 d­eclared after the March on Rome, ‘that if the “Duce” ordered me to kill you, though I should have to obey—Fascism means discipline—it would be the greatest grief of my life.’ And his eyes filled with tears. The two marquises and Signor Nurchis represented Fascism in Cagliari, but it was Signor Nurchis who, owing to his energetic temperament, was in practice its chief. At a time when very few had any belief in Fascism he had the blind faith of the convert. At the head of a squad of youths with drums he used to process solemnly through the streets of the city with the air of a Roman legionary, indifferent to the mirth of the onlookers and the jeers of the street-boys. ‘Who does Mussolini belong to?’ he would shout. ‘To us!’ replied the drummers. ‘And Julius Caesar?’ ‘To us!’ ‘And the Empire?’ ‘To us!’ It was politely pointed out to him that the ancient Romans had had no drums, but he continued to employ them and had an imperial eagle with outspread wings painted on each of them. Besides these three men there were a few of lesser importance and some rank and file. No other Fascist organizations existed in Sardinia at this time.

CHAPTER IV

WITH the progress of Fascism throughout Italy the Blackshirts began to increase their strength in Sardinia. At Cagliari their numbers rose to about fifty. Various ex-officers and a general or two who had been compulsorily retired during the war for inefficiency promptly joined, together with one university professor and a few students. Two industrialists undertook to bear all the expenses of the organization. A member of my political party, who had served under me during the war, was unexpectedly dismissed from his post in one of our co-operative organizations owing to his management of the accounts having been called in question. He resigned from the party and a few days later joined the Fascists. Meeting me one day in the street he explained that he had to live, and the Fascists had offered him a good job. He added that he must confess his admiration for a strong State: ‘Leviathan’ he muttered significantly. His adherence to the new party caused much rejoicing, as he was an ex-combatant—a quality greatly appreciated by the Fascists. He had a restless temperament and succeeded in urging his new companions to a certain measure of activity. But the Blackshirts of Cagliari were still mainly occupied with literature and sport. It was a local mineowner, Commendatore Sorcinelli, who did most for Fascism in this region. He was very well known in Sardinia. Of considerable intelligence, he had always been perfectly certain of what he wanted, and as a democrat with radical sympathies he had played an active part in the political life of the island. But though fortunate in business, he had had small success in politics, and in spite of having stood several times as a candidate for the Provincial Council and for Parliament, he had received remarkably little support. When Fascism first began to make headway in Italy he decided to remain faithful to his democratic opinions; but he made his sons join the Fascists. This did not cause great surprise, because several active democrats, especially those in State employment, were doing the same thing. After several months the inevitable happened. A democrat has in his political make-up the seeds of many different tendencies: he can with equal logic develop into a Fascist or a Communist. After sage reflection Commendatore Sorcinelli became a Fascist, and offered to provide the party with a daily paper. This paper had been in existence for more than twenty years and had a wide circulation. Most of the shares were held by democrats of long standing. But the Commendatore offered a high price, and the shareholders came to the conclusion that opposition in defence of their principles would be inopportune. They sold him their shares and satisfied their consciences by holding to their opinions. This daily brought little prestige to the movement in Sardinia. Most people looked on its changeover as a scandal, and its readers rapidly diminished. But, all the same, the Fascists now possessed a paper; and being possessed of a paper they very soon felt the need for it to proclaim their doings. Sport and literature did not provide material of any great interest. In northern Italy, in Romagna and Tuscany, the Blackshirts were engaged in continual armed conflicts, and their adversaries were being wounded, killed and defeated. The Sardinian

Chapter IV  17 Fascists grew ashamed of their peaceful life and the spirit of emulation began to incite them to take part in greater exploits. Their newspaper, having abandoned the measured style of its democratic past, urged them on: ‘What are the Fascists of Sardinia doing? Awake! To arms! A heroic spirit must be created.’ The Fascists of Cagliari were divided into squads. One Sunday they all proceeded in public through the city, every man armed with a manganello. This was the weapon of the early militant Fascists in Italy: a large, well-turned wooden bludgeon, painted in the three colours of the national flag. The townspeople received them with hisses and cat-calls, but on this occasion nothing worse happened. Not satisfied with their success in the city, they made an excursion on another Sunday to Monserrato, a neighbouring commune. Three abreast, they marched through the principal streets, singing songs offensive to their political opponents. Their warlike appearance, their songs and bludgeons caused great irritation among the people, and a veritable riot ensued. The Blackshirts were surrounded and roughly treated. It chanced that I arrived on the scene by car just as the leader of the Fascists, in the midst of the scrimmage, had climbed a lamp-post; waving his cap, he was crying, ‘Help, help!’ while the crowd surged round him yelling with rage. I intervened and attempted to calm both parties. But although I was well known in the place it was with difficulty that I got the Fascists out of their predicament, and in my role of peacemaker I received a few bruises myself. Finally I succeeded in persuading the crowd to let the Blackshirts go, and the latter allowed themselves to be deprived of their bludgeons, and then marched like prisoners of war to the railway station. I took the same train and travelled with them in order to prevent further incidents on their way home. But nothing occurred. The leader of the expedition, the hero of the lamp-post, came up to me and gravely thanked me for my intervention. He remarked that war was war and that victory or defeat were equally honourable. ‘The main thing is to fight,’ he explained. Finally, as a grateful gesture, he offered me his photograph. I have never collected keepsakes or curios, and did my best to account for my refusal. He did not insist. That night Marchese Zapata never closed his eyes and composed a poem entitled ‘Battle and Blood’. Before long the Fascists demobilized. They no longer went out armed with their bludgeons; there were no more parades in black shirts, and no more offensive songs. The life of the city regained its tranquil aspect. But there was fire smouldering under the ashes. The Fascist headquarters on the mainland insisted that proper fighting organizations must be set up in all districts. ‘Life must be made dramatic,’ Mussolini wrote in his paper. The central organization did not wish Sardinia to be neglected, and sent a special r­epresentative, Signor Loprando, to the island. Signor Loprando arrived at Cagliari bearing full credentials. He was received as a most important personage and a banquet was given in his honour. Later on it became known that Loprando was not really his name; he was in fact the former leader of a Fascist squad in Verona and was wanted by the police for the murder of two workmen. It was for this reason that he had taken a different name: I forget his real one. In the History of the Fascist Revolution by the Fascist Professor Chiurco, he is referred to as ‘Giulio Loprando, delegate of the Central Committee’, so in all probability he has decided to keep to his alias.

18  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist He really was an exceptional man, just as the Fascio of Verona, to which he had always belonged, was exceptional. The vicissitudes of this Fascio are well known in Italy. A celebrated trial brought its origin and record to light. It was among the most aggressive in Italy, and boasted several murders. Originally it was set up by a group of friends who frequented an elegant tea-shop, which for some time remained its headquarters. The proprietress was the intimate friend of the Fascist leader, and presented a flag embroidered by herself to the organization. This was displayed for a long time in the window of a large shop in the city, with a printed notice to the effect that it was the ‘gift of a gentlewoman of Verona.’ Signor Loprando immediately took up his task of reorganization. The police never interfered with him, and his work soon bore fruit. New members were quickly recruited without undue importance being attached to their previous moral or penal records. Two of them had served sentences for assault and theft, another was a boxer of ill-repute; these with various unemployed ne’er-do-wells, formed the backbone of the new forces. It was necessary to act, at all costs. Does not the end justify the means? The most promising of these recruits were divided into squads; they spent the day doing military training in the country, and in the evening issued forth armed with bludgeons. I happened to witness one of their earliest public achievements. A sixteen-year-old workman, known to be a Communist, was walking alone, ignorant of the fact that he was being followed by about sixty Fascists. With true military strategy they surrounded him, and suddenly, at the cry of ‘A noi!’ from their leader, fell upon him and threw him to the ground, kicking and beating him. It was the work of a moment. The Fascists rapidly made off and the unfortunate boy was taken to hospital on a stretcher. There were hundreds of spectators and many of the aggressors were recognized, but the police took no action either then or later. The next day the young men of the city who belonged to all the political parties opposed to Fascism banded together and armed themselves with clubs. That evening many clashes occurred: the Fascists were sought out and attacked in the streets or at their headquarters. Some of the Blackshirts used their revolvers, but no one was killed. The townspeople shut themselves up in their houses, and up to a late hour the noise of conflict went on. The police intervened only to make arrests among the anti-Fascists. But the latter were well led and had no intention of giving in. For some weeks these struggles continued; there were wounded on both sides. Finally the Fascists gave up the fight. Their squads were disbanded and their leaders ordered that no more demonstrations in public were to take place. The police continued to arrest anti-Fascists, and there was great indignation in the city at this abuse of their authority. The Prefect was openly on the side of the Blackshirts. Was it because of instructions from Rome? No one knew. On two consecutive occasions when he appeared at the theatre the audience rose to its feet and shouted ‘Down with the Prefect!’ His authority was much shaken and his position became very difficult. Finally the Government intervened and appointed a new Prefect, who had the reputation of being a Liberal. He at once prohibited the use of bludgeons and reorganized the police. ‘I have come,’ he declared in a speech to his officials, ‘to uphold the law. Politics in Italy are getting into the hands of brigands, but I am here to put down brigandage.’ This at once brought him considerable popularity, and the Fascio suffered a serious reverse. The Marchese Zapata composed an elegy beginning ‘Sad butterfly that weeps…’

Chapter IV  19 But other Fascist sections were being formed in Sardinia. In October 1922 all the Fascists of the island held a congress at Iglesias. Twenty-two out of the more than three h­undred and fifty communes in Sardinia were represented. Signor Dudan, a Fascist parliamentary deputy, was present as representative of the central organization. He had been born in Dalmatia and had always been a fervent supporter of the claims of Italy in that country. His presence endowed the Congress with great authority. He spoke of Fascism, Bolshevism and Democracy, but above all he talked of Dalmatia and represented the French and the Yugoslavs to his hearers as more obnoxious even than Democrats and Bolsheviks. The Congress forgot all about the opponents of Fascism and poured forth its wrath on the oppressors of ‘enslaved’ Dalmatia. The first meeting ended in an atmosphere of war. ‘Long live Dalmatia! Down with Yugoslavia! Down with France!’ They had to vent their feeling in some way, and since there were no French or Yugoslavs in the city, it was the Socialist workers who were assaulted. Reprisals followed and the Congress continued with frequent interruptions all day. Later, things calmed down. Signor Mocci was present on this occasion as leader of the Fascist trade unions. There were no Fascist trade unions in Sardinia, but, all the same, he represented them. With appropriate Latin quotations, he made a speech in which Julius Caesar figured, sword in hand and wearing a black shirt, together with Romulus and Remus and Mussolini. Marchese Zapata was also present. He too had prepared a speech, but circumstances prevented him from delivering it. After the Congress he immemediately summoned the Fascists of Cagliari together and read it to them. It had an enthusiastic reception. The Fascist newspaper reported the Congress at great length, and the spirits of the S­ardinian Blackshirts began to revive.

CHAPTER V

ALTHOUGH Signor Facta still continued to ‘cherish hope’, Fascism was steadily gaining ground. The Catholic workers’ organizations were now being ruthlessly attacked, their co-operative societies and unions broken up, their leaders assaulted. In July 1922 the Fascists of Cremona sacked the house of Signor Miglioli, a parliamentary deputy and head of the Catholic peasants’ unions. This incident brought about the fall of Signor Facta, for the Catholics voted against the Government, and on July 19th, finding he no longer had a majority in the Chamber, he resigned, In vain the Chamber attempted to form some kind of government out of the conflicting parties. The Cabinet, having resigned, took no action, and the situation grew critical. Fighting continued in northern and central Italy. Finally, on July 30th, Signor Turati, the Socialist leader, broke a tradition never hitherto infringed, and went to the Quirinal to confer with the King. He offered Socialist collaboration in the defence of the State. At this moment the ‘Workers’ Alliance’, a federation of anti-Fascist workers’ and peasants’ organizations, precipitated events by declaring a general strike throughout Italy. It began at midnight on July 31 st. The aim of the strike, its organizers announced, was ‘to defend political and trade union liberty’. It was the first time that the Italian workers had banded together in defence of democratic freedom. But the wrong tactics were employed, for they tried passive resistance against an enemy who could not be beaten except in a pitched battle. Should a Government of the Right or the Left be formed? It was a dramatic moment. But the King, hesitating at the cross-roads, eventually found the choice so difficult that he decided to make no move at all. He asked Signor Facta to re-form his Government once more. This solution was not unexpected, and the Fascists had meanwhile called no halt in their work of destruction and looting. ‘I shall defend the State,’ Signor Facta repeatedly declared. A general mobilization of the Fascist forces prepared to assist him in this laudable endeavour. The Fascists were by now in control of Liguria. In Milan they had set fire to the offices of the Socialist newspaper Avanti, after a struggle resulting in killed and wounded on both sides, and without opposition they had occupied the town hall and driven out the Socialist council. D’Annunzio was hurriedly brought from his villa at Gardone to deliver a speech on the formal taking over of this citadel. ‘Citizens of Milan, or rather men of Milan, as a captain would have said in the brave days of old…’ he began, and continued on general subjects, not intending to involve himself too deeply with Mussolini, of whom he was intensely jealous. In other parts of central Italy Fascism seemed everywhere to have gained the upper hand. It was only at Parma that the workers, impatient at the in-action of the armed forces of the State, rose in mass rebellion. The main Fascist forces were concentrated against this city under the command of Signor Balbo, since then a prominent figure in the Italian Government. But the workers raised improvised barricades and held the Fascists at bay for five days. Signor Balbo was compelled to retire without being able to claim the slightest success.

Chapter V  21 The general strike came to a rapid end. It only served to show that the workers’ organizations were no longer a force to be reckoned with, and from that moment they lost faith both in themselves and in their leaders. Filippo Turati wrote in his newspaper: ‘We have been defeated outright in this trial of strength.’ The Fascists were jubilant at their victory. ‘Italian workers!’ proclaimed a manifesto issued by the Fascist Central Committee, ‘the Fascist Party has broken the chains that enslaved you and has given you back your f­reedom. See that you use it well.’ The State was now more defenceless than ever. Mussolini declared in an interview on August 11th: ‘The March on Rome has begun.’ The Central Committee of the Fascist Party met in Milan on August 13th, to discuss the problem of obtaining control of the State. The Government no longer inspired any fear. ‘The choice before us,’ declared Mussolini, ‘is between the legal method of an election and the illegal method of insurrection.’ But although Fascism had succeeded in making itself an effective organization for attack, the country was still hostile. ‘I should not like the ballotboxes to prove,’ added Mussolini, ‘that we have made no conquest at all.’ There must be no election, therefore; no appeal to the people. But insurrection is an unpleasant business, as Parma had recently proved. A coup d’état, taking the country by surprise, would be the best solution. It was necessary, then, in the first place, to gain some foothold in the Government. Mussolini began to negotiate with Signor Facta for the portfolios of several ministries, including, naturally, that of War, which controls the army. It was a case of the Trojan Horse. Signor Facta had no suspicion of his intentions, and patiently endeavoured to reach an agreement with him; but there was resistance within the Cabinet and these manœuvres came to nothing. At all costs the confidence of the army and the King had to be gained. The King was doubtful. Had not the Fascists up till now been revolutionaries with republican leanings? Mussolini dissipated such fears by declaring at a great meeting of Blackshirts at Udine on September 20th, ‘We must have the courage to be Monarchists.’ A great show of sympathy for the army followed. The watchword was ‘Long live the army!’ Meanwhile the Duke of Aosta, who was a cousin of the King and related to the Bourbon claimants to the French throne, promised his support to a coup d’état. The Fascists were In a ferment, and anxiety throughout the country became intense. Many parliamentary deputies went to Signor Facta imploring him to take urgent measures, but the Prime Minister smilingly answered, ‘A March on Rome? But I am in Rome. I am here with troops and artillery.’ And he displayed a large military map of the Roman fortifications. There was no doubt that every fort was in its place. ‘I have ordered the guns to be greased,’ he added. ‘A counter-march must be organized,’ declared Signor Beneduce, a fervent democrat, formerly Minister of Labour in the Nitti Government. ‘Every poison demands its antidote. Insurrection against insurrection, a coup d’état against a coup d’ état.’ And he went about asking for contributions of money and men for the enterprise. He is now a prominent F­ascist. ‘The law! The law!’ cried Signor Petrillo, a democratic deputy and a lawyer famed for his oratory. ‘Let the law be put into force! Mussolini must be arrested. That will finish the business.’

22  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist The proposal reached Signor Facta. ‘Arrest Mussolini!’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘How could we do that?’ ‘Give the order to any prefect,’ suggested Signor Petrillo. But no one listened to him. He too is now a leading Fascist. What was this March on Rome? No one seemed to know. The Press was almost unanimously of the opinion that it was a symbol, expressing a spiritual conquest. Mussolini himself did not seem very clear about it. In the famous interview given on August 11th he had said, ‘The March on Rome is strategically possible from three directions: by way of the Adriatic and Tyrrhenian coasts and up the valley of the Tiber.’ Which, as the map of Italy will show, is a far from coherent plan of campaign. But although his strategy might appear involved, he had at least made it clear that it was a question of a real march, to be carried out on foot. Signor Facta, however, declared that nothing would convince him that the expression was to be interpreted as anything but a figure of speech. The Fascists, meanwhile, arranged for a great meeting of their forces at Naples on October 24th. Was not this mobilization? On September 29th Mussolini had announced, ‘The March on Rome is decided on and will be carried out.’ There was no longer any doubt about it. The March was no poetic symbol. Signor Facta at length began to grow anxious. Then he had a brilliant idea, which, had it been brought to fruition, would have made of Gabriele D’Annunzio the most original of all dictators, past, present, or to come. It relied wholly for its success on the rivalry between Mussolini and the poet, their bitter mutual hatred being well known, despite their public adulation of one another. Each was in reality struggling for power over Italy. The earliest idea of a March on Rome had been D’Annunzio’s. During his rule in Fiume it became an obsession with him. To suppress Parliament and hang Signor Nitti from the nearest lamp-post had been his great ambition, while a dictatorship of poets and artists was to crown the enterprise; a kind of republic of Montmartre. Unfortunately, Fiume fell. And Fascism had since then stolen from D’Annunzio’s army its uniform, its songs, and many of its rank and file: the ‘Duce’ had, in fact, risen to fortune out of the failure of the ‘Comandante’, as the soldier-poet liked to be called. He contemptuously referred to Fascism as slavery, and relations were so strained between the two leaders that each was constantly guarded by an armed escort. People said that whoever succeeded in killing the other would rule in Italy. Later on I met a political deportee who had been one of D’Annunzio’s captains. He told me that when D’Annunzio first heard of Mussolini’s plans for a March on Rome he did nothing but curse and swear, exclaiming, ‘Rome, Rome, will you give yourself to a butcher?’ For a moment it really seemed as though D’Annunzio might be able to prevent a Fascist coup d’état. This opinion was indeed widespread, so much so that the General Confederation of Labour, which up till then had held the poet in detestation, sent him a message composed in thirteenth-century Italian, to demonstrate its friendly feelings. Signor Facta planned to make D’Annunzio the pivot of his whole defensive system, and with this aim he came to an understanding with the leaders of the Disabled Soldiers’ Association, who were all hostile to Fascism. Signor Rossini, Under-Secretary for War Pensions, a rabid anti-Fascist, acted as intermediary in reaching this agreement. He is now a Fascist senator.

Chapter V  23 Reliable information was received to the effect that Mussolini was planning to make his coup d’ état on November 4th, Italy’s Armistice Day. It was Signor Facta’s intention to mobilize all the disabled soldiers of Italy and to bring them to Rome, so that Mussolini would find himself confronted, on November 4th, with the heroes and martyrs of the war in whose name he had the effrontery to speak. D’Annunzio accepted. Every one accepted. The poet prepared his speech and read it in private to various friends. Mussolini was already at Naples, jubilant at his success. He had just received, and read to the Congress, a telegram of good wishes from Signor De Nicola, who was Chairman of the Chamber of Deputies and a Democrat hitherto regarded as anti-Fascist. But suddenly the Duce’s good humour vanished. News of the conspiracy had reached him, and he was seized with panic. D’Annunzio in Rome! The thought of the bald, pale-faced, and unarmed poet filled him with apprehension. So Signor Facta was plotting—he was actually daring to put up a show of resistance? Very well, then, force should be met with force. Profiting by the general enthusiasm he speeded up his plan of campaign. ‘To Rome! To Rome!’ shouted the Blackshirts at Naples. ‘We must either be given control of the Government or we shall take it,’ responded Mussolini. ‘It is now a matter of days, or even hours.’ What was happening in Rome? The city was silent, impassive. Life went on in a normal manner. The army, well disciplined, remained in barracks. The police had the situation in hand, and the Fascists were afraid to be seen wearing their black shirts and even their badges in public. The Government was remaining in permanent session, but within it opinions were divided. Signor Facta was extremely agitated. His dreamed-of ceremony for Armistice Day could not now take place. Never in all his parliamentary experience had he found himself in such a situation, and he had no practical proposals to make. When a group of deputies urged him to take some decisive step he replied tearfully, ‘You want a decisive step? Very well, then, I’ll blow out my brains.’ Mussolini was careful to follow the traditional etiquette of war. Intending to declare it formally before opening hostilities he sent his heralds to the capital. Kerensky has been frequently accused of weakness. But when Lyov, that strange intermediary, came to him to propose an agreement with Kornilov, during his attempted coup d’état, Kerensky had him arrested. And when, in November 1917, the Soviet of Petrograd gained control of the city, Kerensky made personal appeals to the cossacks, the sailors, and the cadets, hurrying in desperation among them in the endeavour to restore discipline. All in vain; but he fought to the last. And Signor Facta? In the first place he courteously received the Duce’s ambassadors, who came to lay before him the choice between war or peace. Endeavouring to temporize, he offered them cigars and invited them to dine. But when he perceived that all was useless, and realized that the ‘March on Rome’ had actually begun, he took his courage in both hands and went to the Quirinal. There he presented his resignation and that of his cabinet to the King.

CHAPTER VI

THE ‘March on Rome’ is one of the strangest events in modern political history. It was decided upon at Naples on October 26th. The mobilization of the Fascist forces took place between the 26th and 27th, and the March was planned for the 28th. The fate of Italy was to be decided at Rome. Mussolini left Naples by train, passed through Rome, and went on to Milan, which is some four hundred miles to the north of the capital. It was a curious position for directing a battle, as a glance at the map will show; in fact, had he remained in Naples he would have been nearer the scene of action. Even according to modern ideas of strategy, four hundred miles from the main fighting force is a great deal; but, on the other hand, Milan had the advantage of being conveniently near the Swiss frontier. The Fascist mobilization took place as best it could. In most parts of the country nothing happened at all. Every one said, ‘This march is going to end badly.’ But the Government had resigned. The Fascist General Staff was at Perugia, and consisted of Bianchi, De Vecchi, and General De Bono. The Duke of Aosta, who had promised to support the enterprise, came secretly to the vicinity. Fascist columns were massed at Civitavecchia, Mentana, and Tivoli. They were all supposed to be threatening Rome, but the greatest disorder reigned among them; muddles, delays, misunderstandings prevented any effective co-ordination between the various columns. For the most part they were without arms; many only had shot-guns, while those with rifles had no ammunition. Only a few machine-guns belonging to the Tuscan squads were in good order. Provisions were already running short ‘Give us food!’ shouted the force at Mentana, on the brink of mutiny. In some provincial cities the Fascists succeeded in occupying various public buildings. At Milan, Mussolini barricaded himself into his newspaper office and surrounded it with barbed wire. ‘We must defend our fort at all costs,’ he said on the 27th, the day before the March, which thus began with a commander who refused to move from behind his barbed‑wire entanglements. Meanwhile a strong force of Milanese Fascists invaded the barracks of the Alpini in Via Ancona, and occupied the guardroom. The Colonel promptly ordered his battalion to fall in, and then confronted the Blackshirts. ‘Long live the army!’ shouted the Fascists. Thank you,’ replied the Colonel, ‘but if you don’t clear out in five minutes, I shall give the order to fire.’ ‘Long live the army!’ cried the Fascists again, and presented arms, as a sign of respect for the regular army. The Colonel, unmoved, repeated his order to them to leave the b­arracks. ‘We would rather die,’ declared their leader. ‘Your wish shall be granted,’ retorted the Colonel. There seemed to be a deadlock. The soldiers fixed bayonets. The Fascist leader, realizing that further discussion was impossible, asked permission to go to the telephone, and thereupon called up Mussolini. When the Duce heard what had happened he issued from

Chapter VI  25 his fortress and hurried to the barracks, where he had a brief but heated conversation with the Colonel. The latter, losing all patience, ordered the bugles to sound the advance. The Duce hastily told his followers to evacuate the barracks, and retired again to his fortress. In Rome all was calm. The optimists declared that a couple of rounds of shrapnel would finish the business. Troops guarded the palace, the Government buildings, the railway stations, the electrical generating stations, the postal and telegraph offices, in fact, every strategical point. Field-guns, machine-guns and armoured cars were in readiness. The Fascist leaders in the city had been arrested. There was no sign of any outbreak. At the Council of Ministers it was decided that martial law should be proclaimed. The King agreed: the State must be defended. On the morning of the 28th martial law was proclaimed throughout Italy, and the Government telegraphed instructions that all Fascist leaders were to be arrested. At Milan, the Prefect summoned Mussolini, who issued a second time from his fortress and presented himself obediently at the Prefecture. The Prefect informed him of the Government’s o­rders: he was to be placed under arrest. Panic assailed the Fascist ranks. Surely the State was not really going to defend itself? ‘Treachery! Treachery!’ shouted the Blackshirts, and disorder reigned, but not for long. At 12.40 the Stefani Agency transmitted the message that martial law had been revoked. What had happened? Simply this. When Signor Facta went to the palace with the decree of martial law which the King had already promised to sign, His Majesty exclaimed, ‘It is impossible. I cannot sign the decree.’ Signor Facta tried in vain to persuade him. Later on the King said to De Vecchi, ‘I wish the Italians to know that it was I who r­efused to have martial law proclaimed.’ ‘Long live the King!’ cried the Fascists. The troops returned to barracks. A proclamation was immediately issued by the leaders of the Liberal Party praising the King’s wisdom. On the 29th the King sent a telegram to Mussolini asking him to form a Government, and the Duce left Milan by train and arrived in Rome the following day. The city was en fête; flags decorated the houses and processions marched through the streets. Only the workers in the poor quarter of San Lorenzo took no part in the general rejoicing. They prepared to defend themselves, and later some of them were to lose their lives at the barricades. The main Fascist columns were still some distance from Rome. The Government sent them food-supplies and directions as to which routes they were to take. Not until two days later, on October 31st, did they actually enter the city. Wild with excitement they marched past the Quirinal, acclaiming the King, who was standing on the balcony surrounded by the royal family, with Mussolini, in his black shirt, beside him. ‘Long live the King!’ shouted the Fascists, hour after hour. ‘Long live the King!’ ‘Is it the King, then, who has brought about the March on Rome?’ asked the common people. The new Government was already formed; it included one general, one admiral, and twelve Fascists. Five Democrats, five Catholic Democrats and two Liberals consented to join it, in order, they said, to exercise a restraining influence on the revolution. Among these was the philosopher of neo-Hegelian idealism, Professor Giovanni Gentile.

26  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist Mussolini was now the leader of the new Italy, and offers of support were coming in from every side. Among the first was that of the general commanding the garrison in Rome, LieutenantGeneral Pugliese. He declared his own readiness and that of his division to die for the Duce. I knew the general well, for we had fought together in many battles during 1915 and 1916, and remembering how little desire he had shown to lose his life during the war I was amazed that he should be so anxious to die in time of peace. But the psychology of many generals is very complex, and they like to use terms which convey the exact opposite of their real meaning. So that when they demand peace one may take it for granted they want war, and when they declare they are ready to die on the spot, it usually means that they are thinking instead of living, and of living very comfortably. On this same day, October 31st, the leaders of the Disabled Soldiers’ Association issued a proclamation singing the Duce’s praises. ‘A great hour is striking for Italy,’ it said. ‘We have foreseen it and have prepared it.’ And since the fiasco of D’Annunzio’s plot was known about the manifesto proceeded: ‘Underhand manœuvres and intrigues have aimed at distorting our honourable intentions, and at laying a foul ambush for the soldier-poet and the heroes who shared with him the sacrifices of the war….’ The leaders of the Disabled Soldiers’ Association represented all the disabled soldiers of Italy about as much as General Pugliese represented all the soldiers in his division. And it should be noted that every one of these leaders was soon to become a Fascist deputy: Del Croix, Mamalella, Romano, Baccarini, etc. D’Annunzio was not in the least disconcerted. His fine plans had come to nothing and his speech was not to be delivered, but he never lost his equanimity. That would not have been in accordance with the principles of aesthetics. He waited impassively, knowing well that the Duce would have need of his lyre; and before long Mussolini sent him, by three different and important emissaries, the expression of his friendship. Was he serious? Or was he joking? The poet replied with an enigmatic message, ending with the words, ‘Victory has the clear eyes of Pallas.’ But Mussolini did not continue to bear him ill-will, and the poet was ready enough to climb down. Before long, he too was a supporter of the new regime: an honorary general and Prince of Monte Nevoso. In addition, a substantial subsidy from the Government rendered his solitude as a King without a crown less melancholy. The Italians—even his own friends—came to call him laughingly, ‘The Du Barry of the Fascist régime.’ The diplomats and higher officials of the Liberal state looked upon all that had happened as perfectly normal. They cavilled at nothing and hastened to accept the fait accompli. Were not the opposition parties themselves wholly impotent? Better say nothing and obey. Only Count Sforza, the Italian ambassador in Paris, found his position impossible, and resigned. The Fascists immediately proclaimed him a rebel and held him up to the contempt of the Nation. The Nation? But what is meant by the Nation? Calm reigned in Italy. Disorder was done with. No more strikes, no more looting, no more fratricidal strife. The rule of law was to be supreme once again. Throughout the country the church bells were ringing: it was peace at last. The rest could be left to fate.

CHAPTER VII

IN Sardinia there was still considerable excitement and uncertainty. No Fascists from the island had gone to march upon Rome; but they were nevertheless under orders to take part in the general offensive—in other words, they too had to win some sort of victory. As in the rest of Italy, they were therefore all mobilized, and had concentrated their forces principally in Cagliari. On the morning of the 28th, to the general surprise, they marched out in column and prepared to attack the headquarters of our party. In case of emergency we had already organized plans for our defence, and we counter-attacked in the street. The conflict was brief and very few received injuries, but the Fascists retired in disorder, even leaving their banner behind them. News of this defeat rapidly spread, and for a time it seemed that all the Blackshirts had vanished from the island; but when it became known that Mussolini had taken over the reins of Government they reappeared, victorious, in their own estimation, at last. On October 31st they organized a demonstration in Cagliari. The police and carabineers looked on with deference, for were not these the representatives of the new Government? With the respectful acquiescence of the agents of the law, the Fascists formed a procession and marched to the Prefecture, intending to inform the Prefect appointed under the old regime that his rule had now come to an end. ‘Down with the Prefect! Let’s see the traitor! Down with the Bolshevik!’ The Prefect found himself in a quandary, and for some time refused to appear, but his staff at length persuaded him to show himself on the balcony. ‘Off with your hat! Raise your hat and salute the Fascist revolution!’ The Prefect removed his hat and began: ‘Gentlemen…’ ‘Scoundrel!’ responded the Fascists in chorus. The Prefect remained motionless and the tumult increased in intensity. Finally, as his words failed to reach the demonstrators, he began to show signs of agitation, and made exaggerated gestures in the endeavour to obtain a hearing. After a time he succeeded in making another start. ‘Gentlemen…’ ‘Idiot,’ shouted a voice from the crowd, and a roar of laughter followed. The police looked on, astounded, but the Prefect never flinched, and in one breath continued—‘Gentlemen, as a faithful supporter of the State I am with you with all my heart! Long live Fascism! Long live his Excellency Benito Mussolini!’ The Fascists were nonplussed. A few applauded and the Prefect retired from the b­alcony. The demonstration was proceeded with in other parts of the city. The Blackshirts marched about the streets singing their songs, and began by insisting that every house should hang out the national flag in sign of rejoicing. But a storm of abuse met them w­herever they went. ‘Down with Fascism!’ was shouted from windows and balconies. Skirmishes took place in the streets. The Fascists tried active provocation, and violent conflicts ensued; but the police were unable to protect them and they were forced to retire in disorder. From every quarter of the city there came shouts of ‘Down with Fascism!’

28  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist Meanwhile great preparations were being made to celebrate the festa of November 4th. The new Government wished to show the whole country that it had the support of the army, the disabled soldiers and the ex-service men. Its strength and popularity were to be solemnly demonstrated in all the principal cities of the realm. At Cagliari more than twenty thousand ex-combatants took part in the ceremony. The Fascists paraded in good order, clad in their black shirts. The troops of the garrison marched past, and the whole city thronged to see the sight. But when the Fascists lined up in front of the ex-service men and disabled soldiers they were greeted at first with an icy silence. Then, from the whole body of ex-combatants there came a great shout of ‘Down with Fascism!’ and the crowd of onlookers took up the cry. The Prefect nearly fainted. The carabineers gathered round the Fascists to protect them, and the troops were ordered to load their rifles. It was not a good beginning to the festa. The general commanding the garrison attempted to restore quiet. He was very popular. Riding into the midst of the ex-combatants he raised his sword and standing up in his s­tirrups shouted, ‘Long live the King!’ There was no response. The general thought he had not been heard, and repeated, ‘Long live the King!’ Again no voice was raised in reply. It was no use insisting; the general ordered his troops back to barracks, and the Fascists hastily returned to their headquarters, escorted by carabineers. The ex-combatants marched off in various columns, accompanied by the cheers of the populace, and the crowd broke up. Soon after, carabineers and police were patrolling the streets in motor-cars and lorries armed with machine-guns. They occupied the chief points of the city, the Fascist h­eadquarters and the Prefecture. The festa had been a failure. A few days later the Prefect of Cagliari was dismissed, and Mussolini appointed another with greater authority from the Fascist point of view. Nor did the festa have greater success in the rest of the island, which showed its hostility to Fascism in so open a manner that for some days there were rumours in Italy and abroad of an insurrection in Sardinia. Mussolini grew alarmed, and announced that special and urgent measures would be taken with regard to the island. ‘What is going to happen? What measures is Mussolini taking? Is it war or peace?’ Such were the questions that the Sardinians anxiously asked of one another. And then news came that Signor Pietro Lissia was coming to Cagliari as the Government’s representative. Signor Lissia was a parliamentary deputy for northern Sardinia, and a personal friend of mine. He had always belonged to the Social Democrat group in the Chamber, and was well known for his fervent support of democratic institutions, of liberty, of reforms aiming at State decentralization, the taxing of wealth, and the improvement of working-class conditions. In England he would have been a Liberal with strong Labour leanings. From the very beginning he had been uncompromising in his opposition to Fascism, and had even endeavoured to create a united front among the parties of the Left to fight Fascism in every possible way, legal or illegal. During my last sojourn in Rome, in October, he had come to me to propose close collaboration between us in Sardinia. ‘It is absolutely necessary,’ he said, ‘for us to stand together. In the past we may have had differences of opinion, but now that liberty is in danger, we must forget them and

Chapter VII  29 b­ecome soldiers fighting in the same army. If Fascism triumphs the civilization of our country will be put back twenty centuries.’ ‘Twenty centuries,’ I commented. ‘Perhaps that’s rather a lot. But we shall certainly return to the Middle Ages.….’ ‘Nonsense,’ he interrupted. ‘The Middle Ages was an enlightened era. I tell you we shall return to Nero, to the circus, to the rule of the sword….’ After a friendly argument, I allowed myself to appear convinced, since it seemed that he attached great importance to the historical comparison, and also because I was a much younger man that he was. ‘It is a matter of morality and honesty,’ he continued, ‘not a case of our own personal interests. Our duty is to defend the cause of liberty to the last drop of our blood. If we do not, it will be a lasting disgrace for us and for our sons. Not that I have any sons myself.’ ‘Nor I.’ ‘We must let Fascism know that it can only conquer by passing over our dead bodies.’ ‘Do you think Mussolini would have the courage?’ I asked, innocently. When I m­entioned the name of the Duce he had an access of a fury. ‘Mussolini! Mussolini!’ he repeated. ‘Do you know what I should do if I were in the Prime Minister’s place? I should outlaw Mussolini. Yes, I should condemn him to o­utlawry, as the Roman Senate condemned Catiline.’ He had considerable classic culture, and it pleased him to draw comparisons with a­ncient times. ‘There are historical moments in the life of a nation in which there is only one distinction to be made: either you are an honest man or you are a criminal. Mussolini is a criminal and should be treated as such. I would say more: every citizen should be accorded the right to kill him with impunity, as an act of self-defence.’ At this point, for the first time in my life, I was introduced to the ethical theory of the morality of ‘counter-violence’, and the necessity for ‘counter-violence’ being preventive. A complex and original theme, easily explained in the course of rapid conversation, but difficult to set down by means of the written word. Our discussion carried us into the domain of pure theory. ‘But if “counter-violence” is preventive,’ I pointed out, ‘it is no longer “counter-violence”, but simply violence; and it loses, ipso facto, the fundamental morality which can only exist as a consequence of reaction to previous violence.’ As the reader can see, the question was becoming complicated. ‘On this theme,’ announced my colleague, ‘I intend to write a treatise.’ And our conversation ended by our coming to an understanding on certain political points. We separated like two combatants who expect to meet again in the trenches for an assault on the enemy. What was my amazement, therefore, on learning that after the March on Rome he had become Financial Under-Secretary in Mussolini’s Government! ‘It’s impossible,’ I said to myself, thinking the report must be mistaken; but the Press soon made it clear that there was no doubt about it. It really was Signor Lissia. And now, as a member of the Government and a trusted emissary of the Duce, he was coming to Sardinia armed with ‘full p­owers’. ‘What on earth is he going to do?’ every one was asking. In the past, visits from members of the Government to Sardinia had been few and far between. The populace consequently always believed that the Government took no interest

30  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist in the island, and much discontent and irritation was the result. This occasion therefore was regarded as an important event. The Fascist newspaper announced the arrival of Signor Lissia in large head-lines. Biographical details of his youth and of his war-record abounded, but little mention was made of his political past. In his heart, it was declared, he had always been a Fascist, and he was among the first to recognize in Mussolini the genius of the Italian race. He was coming to Sardinia to restore confidence and to solve all manner of problems on the spot, without regard for considerations of expense. For it was the Duce’s will that bridges and roads, ports and docks and ships, should be constructed at once in order to demonstrate to all the world the slackness and ineptitude of the preceding Governments. Signor Lissia’s arrival was carefully prepared for. It was to be a solemn ceremony. The city was informed of the exact hour of his coming and the Prefecture urged all the inhabitants to be present. Special invitations were sent to every club, school and all Government employees. Intensive propaganda was made in all parts of the city in the hope of arousing enthusiasm. When the great moment approached the Prefect was waiting at the railway station, together with the general commanding the garrison and other military and civil authorities. But the populace stayed away. As the Minister’s train drew in to the station a military band struck up the National Anthem. The Fascists, black-shirted and armed with revolvers and daggers, shouted ‘Alalà!’ three times and gave the Roman salute. Signor Lissia stepped briskly on to the platform, stood at attention, and returned the Roman salute. He hurriedly received the greetings of the various officials, and then placed himself without a word at the head of the procession, his expression fierce and haughty. ‘How fine you look!’ a university student who had come by the same train shouted laughingly to him. ‘Arrest that man!’ ordered the Minister. He appeared intensely irritated. The student (he was a student of law) was surrounded by the police and handcuffed. His protests were in vain, and he was marched off to the police station, where he had an o­pportunity of reflecting on the administration of the law from a new angle. The incident had annoyed the Minister. At the exit to the station, except for the police, there was no living soul to be seen, which annoyed him still more. He got into a car and drove to the Prefecture. On his way he was greeted by a few hisses, but no serious incident took place. A few hours later the chief of police had some dozens of young anti-Fascists arrested, in the interests of good order. I intervened on their behalf, but without success: strict instructions had been given, and the Minister had said to the Prefect, ‘We must show the iron fist! It is the will of the Government!’ The Fascist squad that had been present at the railway station, encouraged by the Minister’s presence, tried to march through the city singing Fascist songs. Pandemonium ensued, and the Blackshirts were prevented from carrying out their intention. The wrath of the populace grew formidable, and everywhere there were shouts against the Duce, Fascism and Signor Lissia. More arrests were made by the police, amid general protests, and large bodies of carabineers patrolled the streets, preventing hostile meetings. By the evening the city looked as though it were in a state of siege.

CHAPTER VIII

THE following day the Prefect informed the city authorities that Signor Lissia would meet the Provincial Council, explain the Government’s programme, and discuss proposals with regard to Sardinia. As a member of the Council I received notice of the meeting from its chairman. These Provincial Councils, before Fascism, were elective bodies, intermediate in position and authority between the State and the Commune. They have now been a­bolished, and replaced by authorities nominated by the Government. All the members of the Council present that day in the city held a meeting, and we decided to accept the invitation to hear what Signor Lissia had to say. Several Sardinian parliamentary deputies, who happened to be in Cagliari, also decided to be present. The large hall of the Provincial Council was filled long before the hour fixed for the meeting. Every one who had been invited turned up; besides the parliamentary deputies and provincial councillors there were the mayor and municipal authorities, the Rector of the University, and representatives of the Court of Appeal, of the Workers’ Unions, and of the various charitable organizations. In addition there were several big industrialists, bank directors, and technical experts of different sorts, while even the Archbishop was represented by one of his canons. Only the military authorities were absent. The seats reserved for the public were thronged, and it was evident that the greatest interest had been aroused by the opportunity of hearing, from a democratic deputy turned Fascist, about the G­overnment’s intentions. The measures taken for the defence of public order were not less imposing. No fewer than five hundred carabineers and as many police surrounded the building. The Minister entered hurriedly, almost at a run, as one who, hard pressed by work of the utmost importance, must demonstrate to those with leisure that time is money. All the Blackshirts present sprang to their feet and with arms outstretched in the Roman salute, shouted, ‘Eia! Eia! Eia! Alalà!’ The rest of the audience did not move and remained silent. Only the canon half-rose from his seat and made some attempt at a bow. The Minister perceived that it would be as well not to salute the audience in the manner of the ancient Romans, and hurriedly gave the salutation he had always been accustomed to use before the March on Rome. Then he began to speak. I shall never forget that speech. Even to-day I could repeat it almost word for word, together with his gestures, which still seem vividly before my eyes. To begin with, I must explain that my parliamentary colleague was a great smoker, and since he liked to keep his cigars handy, they were always ranged in a row in the breast-pocket of his coat like the decorations on a soldier’s tunic. Even when making speeches his cigars were necessary to him. Just as other orators are unable to express themselves clearly unless they can put their hands in their pockets, play with a watch, or fiddle with a button, so Signor Lissia relied for inspiration on his cigars. Every time that he wanted to emphasize a point he took one from his pocket, now putting it in his mouth, now removing it, now flashing it from side to side in rapid movements that resembled nothing so much as a fencer’s thrusts and parries.

32  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist All this aroused little notice when he was talking to friends. I had often watched his cigars perform similar gyrations, and it had seemed perfectly natural that a smoker should act in such a manner. But this evening, in the Council Chamber, for some reason things turned out differently. The attention of the audience was immediately seized by the sight of so imposing a row of cigars in one breast pocket. It became riveted as, with the speaker’s opening words, a cigar began to execute a series of complex and acrobatic movements in the air before him. Sounds of hilarity began to be heard, at first suppressed, and then open: the more the onlookers tried to restrain their mirth the more difficult they found it, and before long nearly all of them were laughing outright. Signor Lissia perceived at once, though without understanding why, that he alone was the cause of this unexpected disturbance. Taking it as an insult directed not only at his own person but at the whole regime, he promptly lost his temper. ‘Gentlemen!’ he shouted, ‘this is no longer a time of democratic carnival. The G­overnment of Benito Mussolini is not a government of straw. Might is right….’ He had forgotten that he was confronted by an audience almost entirely hostile in its feelings towards him. A prolonged murmur of dissent arose as he spoke. ‘Clown!’ called out a voice from the part of the hall reserved for the general public. The Minister stopped. The spectators applauded, and most of them stood up, still laughing. The Prefect, however, was not amused. Purple in the face with rage, he ordered some carabineers into the hall to arrest the irreverent interrupter; they were unable to lay hands on him and had to retire amid the jeers of the onlookers. The Minister began once more. Again the cigar rotated before the eyes of the spectators, travelling rapidly every now and then from his pocket to his mouth and back again. ‘Gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘no one shall challenge the March on Rome. Not for o­urselves but for the greatness of our country have we brought about this great event.’ ‘The less said about that the better,’ interrupted another voice, Again the meeting dissolved into laughter. Signor Lissia, feeling his authority undermined, so lost control of himself that, repeating the Duce’s name in a threatening tone he found himself saying Musolino instead of Mussolini. Musolino is the name of a famous Calabrian brigand and consequently matters were not improved by the reference. The Minister tried to save the situation by turning to the subject of public works. ‘The previous Governments have betrayed the vital interests of the island, but Musolino wishes to make amends for the past. Make known your wishes: say what are your most urgent needs, and the Government will set to work. In a short time every important undertaking will be started, without the endless bureaucratic delays to which you have been accustomed in former times.’ He went on to specify the works that the Government considered indispensable, and finally threatened severe reprisals against such anti-Fascists as dared in future to throw obstacles in the way of Fascism. ‘We shall be implacable. We shall crush them.’ And he concluded with laudatory references to the King and the Duce. Only the Prefect, the chief of police, and the Fascists applauded. The Minister then sat down and his cigars were for the moment left to rest in peace. In my capacity of Parliamentary Deputy and Provincial Councillor, I had the right to speak, and it had already been arranged among my colleagues that I was to reply to the

Chapter VIII  33 Minister. As I rose the Prefect interrupted and politely explained that owing to the political excitement in the city any speech by me would be inopportune at the moment. The Fascists stood up and applauded this suggestion loudly. ‘Don’t let him speak!’ they shouted. ‘Speak! Speak!’ cried the rest of the audience. Finally the Minister appealed for silence. He rose and declared that I had a right to speak, and, with his cigar, invited me to do so. My speech was an open attack on the Government and on Fascism. While I was making it, the Minister nodded his head in agreement. Great was the amazement of those present when he proceeded to declare, in making his reply, that substantially there was no divergence of opinion between himself and me. ‘In practice,’ he concluded, ‘we could act in perfect accord with one another.’ An engineer, who was an expert in public works, then rose to point out that it would be impossible to initiate works of considerable importance without drawing up plans and estimates which in themselves would mean months if not years of labour: and that even with such plans ready, no works could be carried out unless the State was prepared to bear the cost. He was prevented from continuing by the Minister. The meeting was over. Signor Lissia left the Council Chamber. A clerk from the Prefecture came and told me that the Minister would like a word with me and begged me to go to him at once. I followed the clerk to where my ex-colleague was staying. He was waiting for me, and came forward smiling, to shake my hand. ‘Don’t be surprised at my speech,’ he said. ‘I had to speak like that for purely formal reasons, but you know that I think precisely as you do on all points.’ Seeing my astonishment he repeated, ‘Yes, on all points. Only, as your own example shows, mankind in general, and a politician in particular, is forced to wear a mask,’ ‘My example shows nothing of the sort.’ ‘A mask. But that is merely the outside. What really matters is a man’s inner c­onvictions.’ ‘It is certainly our inner convictions that have brought you into the Fascist Government and me to the Opposition….’ ‘Don’t let us waste time on irrelevant matters. You know that the democratic ideals which I have fostered all my life remain the same. The outer garment is changed. But the monk is not made by his habit.’ ‘It is only the habit, however, that enables us to distinguish between the monk and the trooper.’ ‘A superficial distinction. Let us discuss this calmly, without prejudice. If you remove the cover from an edition of Cicero and replace it by that of a French novel you still have a work by Cicero.’ ‘But if you are a bookseller, and, for your own gain, change the bindings and sell one book for another, you are deceiving the public and committing an offence against the law.’ ‘And who says I stand to gain?’ ‘You cannot deny that, considering the way the wind is blowing at the present time, it is more comfortable to be on the side of those in power than with the opposition.’

34  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist ‘Listen to me, my friend. Before accepting the post of Minister, I suffered a great deal. I assure you that I went through moments of mental anguish. Think of it! I was leaving behind me my political colleagues of twenty years’ standing! Does that seem nothing to you? Is it pleasant to break off one’s closest friendships? In the end I said to myself: How can I be most useful to my country, as Fascist or anti-Fascist? And, putting aside selfish motives, I made my choice.’ ‘Do you think that the country would have come to ruin if you had retired from p­olitics?’ ‘You are joking, not reasoning.’ ‘I could not believe in the news of your joining Mussolini’s Government. I thought that you were occupied in writing your treatise on the theory of ‘counter-violence’…. ‘Keep to realities, my friend. Let us be clear about this. Men and times change, and change violently. Politics are not only abstract theory; politics are an art!’ ‘And consistency?’ ‘Consistency? Reality is always consistent.’ He was no longer diffident, but sure of himself. Smilingly he came to the point, and made me definite proposals for collaboration. ‘In the name of the Duce,’ he added, c­onfidently. ‘He is like Caesar. He bears no malice towards his adversaries.’ ‘Most kind of him.’ ‘And remember,’ he added, still smiling as he again drew upon the well of his classical culture, ‘remember that Caesar was not glad but grieved when Ptolemy presented him with Pompey’s head. All historians are agreed upon that.’ ‘And you have not waited for the head to be cut off…. ‘No—to be quite frank.’ I rose, cutting short a conversation that was perfectly useless, even after the reference to Ptolemy. He too stood up and, suddenly resuming his authoritative manner, curtly d­emanded: ‘Well? Are we friends or enemies?’ ‘Enemies.’ ‘Very well! You shall soon have proof of it.’ ‘What do you mean by that?’ ‘You shall see.” he repeated grimly. We parted coldly, without shaking hands. As I shut the door I saw him again, standing motionless at the other end of the big room in the attitude of a warrior, a cigar firmly gripped in his right hand, as though it were a sword.

CHAPTER IX

THE same evening a bulletin was issued giving an account of the meeting held in the Council Chamber. It gave rise to lively discussion in the city, and hostility to the G­overnment was almost universally expressed. ‘The calm before the storm,’ remarked a friend of mine who was dining with me. ‘I’m certain that something serious is about to happen. An officer of the carabineers has told me in confidence that the Minister has given the order to fire on the anti-Fascists, and that you in particular are singled out for reprisals.’ ‘What do you think they’re going to do?’ ‘I know nothing for certain, but the general tension is so great that there is bound to be some kind of outbreak. The police and carabineers are openly supporting the Fascists, which only encourages them to give provocation. My brother has already been assaulted by them, only a few hours ago. He was brought home in a dreadful state, and my mother fainted at the sight of him, though his injuries aren’t really serious. But how can we live like this? After the meeting of the Council the police made more arrests. We shall all end in prison; perhaps worse.’ My friend went on to tell me of other recent occurrences. He had been an officer of engineers during the war, and had afterwards taken part in the Fiume adventure with D’Annunzio. Then, much disillusioned, he had returned to civil life and later became a member of my party. His elder brother, who had been a friend of mine at the university, was killed in the war; the youngest, of whom he had just been speaking, was a university student, and, like all the Sardinian university students, an active anti-Fascist. I knew that his mother was obsessed by the fear that she would lose her remaining sons in the civil war that had succeeded the Great War, and I said to him: ‘Why don’t you go home to look after your mother?’ ‘If there is fighting in the town I don’t want it to be thought that I was hiding at home.’ He was well informed on the situation in the city, having friends and acquaintances in all camps, and his forecasts always proved true. We had hardly finished our meal when two students entered, excited and out of breath. Fascists and anti-Fascists had come to blows on the piazza: firearms had been used and two bombs thrown; there had been several persons wounded and many arrests amongst our party. It was already dark. We went out together. In a few minutes we were on the scene of battle. The piazza was occupied by Royal Guards1 and police, the Fascists having disappeared. Various hostile groups of onlookers were hanging about in the vicinity, and from them I was able to learn what had happened. The Fascists had used revolvers; our friends had been unarmed and the injured had all been on our side. The confusion in the piazza was still great, but I succeeded in reaching the major in command of the Royal Guards. On all sides there were shouts of ‘Down with Fascism!’ 1

  The Royal Guards (Guardia Regia) were a special body of police on a military footing.

36  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist The major, who was standing with a commissario of police, appeared extremely irritated, but he received me politely, knowing that I was a Member of Parliament and an ex-army officer. He at once informed me that he had fought in the war and that street-fighting meant nothing to him, in fact, that he enjoyed it: it gave him an appetite for his food. I pointed out that I too had fought in the war, but that I did not consider the streets of my native city a suitable place for hostilities. ‘We shall see. We shall see,’ he answered excitedly. ‘You can take it from me we shall have firing before the evening is over.’ ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘you will have yourself to blame.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean,’ I answered, ‘that it is your duty to prevent disorders and their disastrous c­onsequences, just as it is mine to assist you to do so in any way I can.’ The major broke into a nervous laugh. ‘Do you want me to believe that you, of all people, are anxious to avoid disorder? After that great speech you made at the Council! But you are the cause of it all! It says here that you’ He drew a typed circular from his pocket. ‘Where does that come from?’ I asked. ‘From those who know more than I and who have the right to give me orders.’ ‘May I see that circular?’ The major returned it to his pocket. ‘Then let us keep to facts,’ I continued. ‘This evening, in this piazza, there has been a conflict between Fascists and anti-Fascists who are’ ‘In French pay,’ interrupted the major sharply. I pretended not to hear, as I had no wish to embark on questions of foreign policy. ‘Between Fascists and anti-Fascists. Fire-arms and bombs have been used. Anti-Fascists have been wounded.’ ‘Very few,’ asserted the major. I took no notice. ‘Which means,’ I went on, ‘that the shots were fired by the Fascists. That is quite clear. And you have only arrested anti-Fascists.’ ‘I carry out my orders without discussion.’ ‘But your orders cannot be to arrest the unarmed and leave the armed alone.’ ‘And if my orders are precisely that?’ ‘Oh, no!’ I exclaimed. ‘The law——’ ‘What does the law matter?’ interrupted the major. ‘What?’ I asked in amazement. ‘You, an officer of the law, cannot possibly suggest that the law counts for nothing——’ ‘For nothing at all,’ the major whispered in my ear. I was unprepared for such a reply, which completely took the wind out of my sails. My first thought was to cut the conversation short and go away. But, perhaps unwisely, I made one more effort to impress the major. ‘Do you know,’ I inquired with dignity, ‘that you are speaking to a Member of Parliament?’ I looked him squarely in the eyes, and then turned to the commissario of police, who had remained beside us, silent and nervous. ‘Parliament,’ retorted the major contemptuously, ‘Parliament has had its day.’ I stood as though turned to stone. This was my own opinion, but I had hoped it was not his. Any further discussion was superfluous.

Chapter IX  37 Cries of ‘Down with Fascism’ continued on all sides. As I withdrew, the major called after me, ‘I shall now order the bugles to sound. If all those who are shouting do not disperse at once, I shall give orders to fire.’ ‘That would be a most warlike action,’ I replied, ironically. The major gave me a challenging look, and I realized that he was speaking in earnest. I turned once more to him and said: ‘I too am an officer. I appeal to your military honour. Do not fire on an unarmed p­opulace.’ He did not answer, but ordered the bugles to sound. I made my way through the crowd of police and carabineers, followed only by my friend, who was a little behind me. ‘Look out, Signor Lussu!’ cried a woman from a window nearby. I had no time to turn round. There was a blinding flash before my eyes and I fell u­nconscious to the ground. Half an hour later I came to in the hospital, to which I had been carried on a stretcher. My friends told me what had happened. One of the Royal Guards had aimed a violent blow at my head with the butt end of his rifle. My friend had been able partially to ward off the blow, and my condition was not serious, though my face and shoulder were covered with blood. But the doctors feared concussion and I was forbidden to speak. I felt extremely weak. The doctors were all friends of mine and did their utmost for me. In their opinion, had it not been for my friend’s promptitude I should have been killed on the spot. While the doctors were bandaging my head, the major of the Royal Guard, with whom I had been speaking on the piazza, appeared at the hospital. This time Parliament seemed to be causing him anxiety. He wanted news of my condition. The doctors refused to let him enter my room, but he insisted that he had been expressly ordered by the Prefect to see me. ‘You cannot come in,’ the doctors repeated, and went on with their work. The major remained firmly planted outside the door. ‘Is he alive?’ he inquired at last. ‘He is alive and will live to a good old age,’ replied a doctor rudely. The major retired. News of the assault on me quickly spread, and soon a great crowd of men, women and children gathered round the hospital to show their sympathy. The police attempted in vain to disperse them. During the whole night the piazza in front of the hospital, and all the adjacent streets, remained full of people. The Prefect ordered the police to guard the entrance to the hospital. When they arrived the crowd greeted them with hostile shouts; several arrests were made, but the police were withdrawn. During the night, as the doctors had foreseen, my temperature rose and concussion set in. The shouts of ‘Viva Lussu!’ reached me in my semi-conscious state, and caused me great bitterness of feeling. ‘What is the use,’ I asked myself, ‘of loyal support when one is powerless?’ I was under no illusion with regard to the political situation. We were no longer fighting against the Fascist movement but against all the forces of the State now under its control.

CHAPTER X

THE impression caused throughout Sardinia as news of the assault on me spread was enormous. A Member of Parliament, alone and unarmed, attacked by the police! It was generally attributed to the speech against the Government that I had made a few hours previously at the Council meeting, and demonstrations of protest were at once organized in all parts of the island. In Cagliari feeling was running dangerously high; all the shops closed and the whole populace stayed away from work. On every hand imprecations were being hurled at Fascism. Representatives of the opposition political organizations, together with the parliamentary deputies and provincial councillors, went to the Prefect to protest, but he refused to receive them. The general commanding the garrison, who had been one of my superior officers during the war, came to visit me; he intended only to express his affection for one of his former officers, but the public interpreted his act as a political gesture. From the neighbouring towns representatives of the ex-combatants and other political organizations flocked into Cagliari, while telegrams sent from every part of the island gave proof of the general state of feeling. A great wave of anti-Fascism, threatening in its p­roportions, was sweeping the island. I was in bed, unable to stir hand or foot. I had even received the general without being able to speak to him. Later, my mother was allowed to see me, on the understanding that she did not say a word; she dissolved into tears, and was not allowed to remain. But her presence served to increase the general excitement, for she was recognized by the crowd as she left and loudly cheered. The police charged the demonstrators; several were injured, and arrests were made, but the crowd, when dispersed in one place, only formed again in others. The Fascists were either hiding in the houses of friends or had fled from the city. Machine-guns guarded the barracks of the police and Royal Guards. The Prefect had not large forces at his disposal, and did not dare ask for the employment of regular troops against the populace, for fear that they could not be relied on to obey orders. Every moment the situation grew more dangerous. The Duce, informed of what was happening, came to the rescue. He obviously could not, in this instance, rely solely on force. With an unexpected volte-face, he instructed the Under-Secretary to the Ministry of the Interior, Signor Finzi, to send me a long telegram full of sympathy and regret for what had occurred. The same afternoon the Prefect and the Minister hurried round to see me. The doctors objected, but political exigencies prevailed, and they were allowed into my room. The Minister entered first, his cigars, as usual, much in evidence; close behind him followed the Prefect. Both appeared intensely grieved at my condition, and as I was not allowed to speak I was forced to listen to the expression of their sympathy. The Minister spoke both as my friend and as a representative of the Government. He was amazed and shocked, he said, at what had occurred; the Government had immediately ordered not only that the guilty were to be punished, but that amends should be made to me in every possible way: the city must be pacified.

Chapter X  39 I did not follow much of what he said. Many of his words escaped me, but at least I comprehended that what he wanted at all costs was the pacification of the city. He had come to appeal for my co-operation. When he left my room he appeared much moved. All this had happened in the course of no more than twenty-four hours. My fever prevented my receiving other visitors. The Minister at once made a public announcement that the interview had taken place and put himself in touch with my political friends. The stratagem began to bear fruit. Was any pacification possible after the March on Rome? Pacification could mean nothing but submission to those in power. But at Cagliari a temporary modus vivendi was found. The Minister called together the leaders of the opposition and the heads of the Fascists, who after some hesitation emerged from their hiding-places. Signor Lissia proposed that each side should respect the other and should undertake to cease from any form of v­iolence. The struggle in the future must keep within the law. The opposition leaders imposed conditions, stipulating that all political prisoners arrested since the arrival of the Minister should be set at liberty, and the Royal Guards and police at once withdrawn from the streets; without which all talk of peace was impossible. The Minister agreed, and a pact was thereupon drawn up and signed by both sides, including Signor Lissia himself. These conditions were carried out. The Fascist newspaper deplored the excesses of the past, and even published an article expressing sympathy for me. So it was peace. The populace returned to work and the excitement died down. Demonstrations of s­ympathy for me continued round the hospital, but without disorder of any kind. It is true that the younger people were hostile towards the agreement. They had no faith in treaties drawn up at the Prefecture, but they ended by giving in to their leaders. The release of all the arrested persons appeared as proof of the Government’s goodwill and was hailed by the public as a great success for the opposition. Thus the city regained its normal aspect once again. Only the army of small boys refused to disarm or to obey the orders of the authorities. This army was a most curious organization. It had appeared spontaneously, and consisted of about a thousand urchins from ten to twelve years of age. The commander-in-chief was perhaps fourteen. For the most part they were sons of workers, but the driving-force of the army was composed of some hundreds of homeless ragamuffins, such as are to be found in almost all Italians ports. Deserted by their families or possessing no families at all, they earn their living by doing odd jobs in the port, and lead the free and independent lives of little vagabonds, eating as they stand, sleeping in doorways, and washing every day in the sea, even in winter. By instinct they are drawn to molest any person of authoritative aspect, and they naturally look upon annoying the police as their chief sport. Banded together in groups vowed to mutual assistance, they form a strange sort of tribal community ignored and uncared-for by the rest of the world. But when they hear the bugles of passing troops or the drums of some sporting association, they line up and march alongside in military formation with serious faces and chests thrown out. Their brothers have been immortalized in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. This army used to begin its manœuvres in the afternoon when school was over. On holidays there was no fixed hour. No one knows how they first came together. They had their own flags and their elected leaders. The commander-in-chief was a baker’s boy, who had

40  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist gained his position through personal ability, but also owing to the possession of a trench helmet which, though much too large for him, served to endow him with great authority. Thus organized they traversed the streets of the city in excellent order, singing anti-Fascist songs. They often came to my hospital, and the baker’s boy even succeeded in reaching my bedside, as the bearer of a message of sympathy. The police were powerless to control them. They could not be arrested, still less dispersed with violence. They clung to the legs of the carabineers and impeded their movements. They reconquered the banners lost in combat by means of mass charges and celebrated their triumphs with special songs. Confronted with superior forces they would rapidly s­catter in all directions, only to reassemble in some other place immediately a­fterwards. The authorities, having repeatedly failed in their efforts to suppress them, had recourse to the fire brigade, which took the army of urchins by surprise one day by using hoses on them. But the manœuvre only succeeded once. New tactics were at once thought out for combating the new form of offensive, and thenceforward the army fought in open order. Nothing would make them give in. They would have nothing to do with peace. The baker’s boy proclaimed in all his orations, ‘We do not recognize the “March on Rome”. We do not recognize treaties and we make our appeal to the people.’ ‘They are the only serious political fighters,’ one of my doctors said to me.

CHAPTER XI

MUSSOLINI made his first appearance as Prime Minister in the Chamber of Deputies on November 16th, and the following day in the Senate. But both his demeanour and his language were different on these two occasions. The Chamber of Deputies was hostile; therefore it must be intimidated. The Senate was favourable, and so must be flattered. The Duce did both with perfect self-possession. Excitement was intense in the Chamber. The space reserved for the public was mostly occupied by Blackshirts, and the deputies were in their seats almost to a man. Their one remaining hope was that the Constitution would be respected, and they waited anxiously, wearing on their faces the look of those who have put their last farthing on a horse that is obviously out of the running, but who still hope that by some miracle it may win. Signor Giolitti was sitting, impassive, in his usual place, his face as impenetrable as a mask. Gazing upward, he drummed lightly with his long fingers on the back of the seat. In the solemn silence around him it sounded like a kind of funeral march; the eighty-year old statesman was well aware that the obsequies of the Italian Parliament were about to be performed. The three former Prime Ministers, Salandra, Bonomi and Facta, were also in their places, the first on the right, the other two on the left. All three seemed satisfied. Signor Nitti’s seat was empty. Mussolini triumphantly entered the Chamber at the head of the members of his Government. He was of course on foot, but he somehow gave the effect of being on horseback. He was met by a storm of applause from the public and the deputies of the Right, while the Blackshirts stood up and greeted him with their battle songs. Mussolini, standing at attention, raised his arm in the Roman salute, and when silence was restored took his seat in the centre of the Government benches. At his side were General Diaz and Admiral Thaon de Revel, who, representing the army and the navy, were a guarantee of good order and an open expression of royal favour. Mussolini pointed them out to the Chamber, and great a­pplause followed. Finally he rose to speak. After another frantic ovation, he began: ‘I have the honour to inform the Chamber that His Majesty the King on October 31st last accepted the resignation of Signor Facta….’ All eyes were turned on Signor Facta, who made a gesture of modest a­cknowledgment. The speech was constitutionally orthodox, its aim apparently being to impress on the Chamber that everything that had occurred had been according to the fundamental laws of the State, and it was evidently much appreciated by the deputies. ‘Gentlemen, I am to-day performing an act of formal respect towards you for which I ask no especial recognition on your part.’ A long pause. ‘Have the prerogatives of Parliament been infringed? …I will leave the melancholy task of debating this point to the z­ealous supporters of super-constitutionalism.’ The right and the centre received this sally delightedly, and loud laughter from the public followed. ‘I declare that the revolution has its own rights. And I must add, for all to know, that I am here to defend and to bring to completion this revolution of the Blackshirts.’

42  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist The Chamber showed visible signs of anxiety, and many eyes were lifted toward the crowd of Blackshirts present. ‘I have refused to carry our victory to greater lengths: as I might have done.’ A certain sense of relief invaded the Chamber. Many deputies nodded in approval, like those who, endeavouring to calm an armed madman, assure him of their goodwill. Mussolini glimpsed the underlying meaning of their attitude and became angry, glaring round him in a threatening manner. ‘I could have bivouacked my Blackshirts in this dark and gloomy Chamber. I could have made an end of Parliament.’ An icy silence descended on the Chamber, and a vision of Bonaparte’s Grenadiers and of the 19th Brumaire was momentarily evoked. The defenceless lovers of peace and good order were filled with consternation. There was a long pause. ‘It was in my power to do so, but such was not my wish.’ Relief once more. The Duce was amusing himself, playing with the Chamber as a cat with a mouse. He added, immediately, with a sarcastic indication of future possibilities: ‘At least, for the time being.’ Desolation returned. ‘I have formed a Coalition Government, not with the aim of obtaining a parliamentary majority, which I can now do without’—the Chamber grew embarrassed—‘but as a tribute to His Majesty, who refused to support the reactionary attempts which were made at the last moment.’ ‘Long live the King!’ shouted the Fascists and the whole Chamber, except for the extreme left. The applause lasted ten minutes. Signor Facta himself was clapping, and the diplomats present all showed their approval. ‘The liberties of the State shall not be infringed: the law shall be respected at all costs…. The State is strong and will punish all law-breakers, even if they should be Fascists.’ A look of disappointment was to be seen on the faces of the Blackshirts who crowded the public seats. But, on the other hand, the effect of these few words on the Chamber was considerable. Signor Giolitti himself broke into applause, and satisfaction was expressed even among the benches of the extreme left. The speech continued, ranging over every aspect of State administration, political economy, finance, and, above all, foreign policy. But the Chamber did not pay much attention, for it was interested in internal policy only. ‘Gentlemen, I do not wish to govern against the Chamber,’ But in order that no misunderstanding might arise, he quickly added, ‘As long as I find it possible,’ The cat was playing with the mouse again. The Duce proceeded very slowly, emphasizing every word, while the deputies wavered between hopefulness and blank despair. It was surprising none of them collapsed under the strain, ‘But the Chamber must understand that I can dissolve it—in two days, or in two years.’ It was out at last. The bargain had been offered, the Chamber understood, and c­apitulation was silently decided on in that moment. ‘I claim full powers!’ Dictatorship.

Chapter XI  43 But the enemy must not only acknowledge defeat; it must be left in a state of terror, fully conscious of its helplessness. Mussolini now turned to the use of sarcasm and scorn. S­lowly, icily his words fell upon the ears of his audience, leaving no doubt about his m­eaning. ‘Gentlemen, do not continue to throw empty words to the nation. Fifty-two of you have your names down to speak after me: that is too many.’ Which was perfectly true. It was the coup de grâce. But why should we not acknowledge that it lay in his power to say and do still more? Cromwell, when making his last speech before the dissolution of the Long Parliament, having spoken with great calmness, suddenly grew wrathful. ‘Come, come,’ he cried, ‘I will put an end to your prating. You are no Parliament! I say you are no Parliament.’ Leaving his place, he strode up and down among the members, and addressing them by name, hurled reproaches at them, calling some drunkards, others whore-masters—‘corrupt, u­njust, s­candalous to the profession of the Gospel.’ Like Cromwell, Mussolini ended his discourse by invoking God’s name. But he did not descend to personalities. In this he was not ungenerous. The Chamber gratefully passed a vote of confidence by the large majority of three hundred and six to one hundred and sixteen. There were seven abstentions; these last had a­pparently failed to understand the issue and were waiting for further light on the matter. Thus the Chamber was assured of another two years of life. It was a striking success. Giolitti, Bonomi, Salandra, and De Nicola all voted in favour of the Government. The group of Liberal Democrats voted in favour, though its eighty-year-old president CoccoOrtù voted against and resigned from the group. The Catholic Democrats voted in favour. Those against consisted of the small democratic group under the leadership of Amendola, the Republicans, and the Extreme Left. At the last moment the Opposition reduced the number of speakers chosen to reply to the Government. Among the best speeches were those made by Signor D’Aragona, representing the General Confederation of Labour, and Signor Cao, representing the small group to which I belonged. Signor D’Aragona, dwelling on the great historical importance of the moment, expressed grave anxiety regarding the welfare of the syndicalist organizations, an attitude comparable to that of a sailor thinking only of keeping his feet dry in the midst of shipwreck. He ended with a moving appeal for peace, in which he was quite sincere, for he hated conflict in any form. Signor Cao made a fighting speech. He was a great lawyer, and implacable in his indictment of Fascism. At the end of it, he leant threateningly towards the Duce, and, trembling with rage, cried, ‘Signor Mussolini, long live the unconquerable sovereignty of the people! Long live Parliament!’ His fury was so great that for a moment the Fascists feared he meant to assault the Duce, and those nearest their leader closed round him to protect him. Yet four years later both Signor D’Aragona and Signor Cao were supporters of Fascism, the former modestly philo-Fascist and the latter militant, violent and intransigent. Each had plenty of disinterested arguments to bring forward in justification of the practical advantages of this conversion, which was by no means an isolated phenomenon in Italy, and was usually referred to as a ‘crisis of conscience’. Mussolini left the Chamber triumphant, like a lion-tamer making his exit from a c­rowded circus.

CHAPTER XII

I WAS making a rapid recovery, but still had to remain in bed at the hospital, for my wound had been a serious one. Signor Lissia had returned to Rome. The pact of pacification was observed by both sides and public order appeared to be re-established. Nevertheless, whole battalions of carabineers and mounted police were arriving day by day in the city; the barracks proved inadequate for them and various public buildings had to be requisitioned for their use. To the friends who asked me what such a concentration of troops could signify I was at a loss to suggest any answer. The newspapers announced that there would be a great Fascist demonstration at Cagliari on November 27th, in which all the Fascists in the province were to take part. The most elaborate preparations were made, and the Prefect invited the townspeople to hang out flags from their windows in sign of welcome; but except on the houses of Fascists and on public buildings not a single flag was to be seen. The city felt ill at ease beneath such a display of force, yet no open hostility was shown and the leaders of the opposition took measures to ensure that no provocation should be given to the Fascists on this occasion. They had indeed requested permission to hold a peaceful demonstration themselves on the previous evening, but this was refused by the Prefect, and many members of the opposition, rather than be passive witnesses of the spectacle, had decided to spend the day in the country. The Fascist detachments arrived at Cagliari on the morning of the 27th, a Sunday. A band first marched up and down the streets to announce their arrival, and later all the Fascists collected in the immediate vicinity of their headquarters. There were over three hundred of them; so large a number had never before been seen in Sardinia, but the town paid them little attention. The Fascists were armed with bludgeons, revolvers, and daggers, and all wore the black shirt. In addition, there were some thirty women, also clad in black shirts—a sight never before seen in the island—and armed with revolvers, in accordance with the custom of the female Fascist organization on the mainland. They carried neither daggers nor bludgeons, the fastidiousness of the weaker sex no doubt allowing only the use of nobler weapons, and they shared the rations of their comrades-in-arms. Then, at one o’clock, in accordance with the programme, the march past began. Royal Guards and carabineers came first, both mounted and on foot. Then followed the Blackshirts, with their drums and standard-bearers, and the rear, again, was brought up by over a thousand carabineers and Royal Guards. Ordinary police were on duty in civilian clothing: the cross-roads and the more important points of the city were held by Royal Guards with machine-guns. The demonstration looked like being a success. ‘Death to all traitors!’ shouted the leaders of the column. ‘Death!’ replied the others in chorus. ‘Off with your hats!’ shouted the standard-bearers. The townspeople looked on, hostile but impassive, and not a hat was raised to salute the Fascist flags. This was regarded by the Fascists as serious provocation, and some of them

Chapter XII  45 broke their ranks and attacked the spectators with their bludgeons. The latter, taken by surprise, attempted to defend themselves, and considerable disorder ensued. A leading Fascist, cut off from his comrades and surrounded by a group of angry young men, thought his life was in danger and shouted, in a sudden panic, ‘Down with Mussolini!’ Confused shouting at once broke out on all sides and from the windows came the cry of ‘Down with Fascism!’ A crowd quickly gathered from the adjoining streets and the Fascist bugles sounded the alarm. It was the prearranged signal. The Fascists, relinquishing their bludgeons, drew their daggers and revolvers and began to use them wildly on the crowd. Blood soon flowed. Groups of opponents collected together and attacked the Fascists as best they could, but though superior in numbers, they were wholly unarmed. Indeed, it was clearly established afterwards that no one had any weapons but the Blackshirts. None the less the Fascist ranks, attacked on every side, were quickly broken; but the Royal Guards and carabineers promptly came to the rescue. Raising their rifles they fired, first in the air, and then on the crowd. There ensued a scene of wild disorder. Many lay on the ground, wounded; others, trying to get away, were stopped by the patrols stationed at all the street corners, and arrested. Noisy protests from prisoners, bugle-calls and bursts of firing, mixed with the cries of the wounded and the screams of women, turned the place into the semblance of some citadel of ancient times given over to the violence of an i­nvading army. From my hospital bed I could hear the sounds of shouting and firing in the distance, and could not imagine what was happening. Then one by one the wounded began to arrive, carried in on stretchers and chairs or helped by their friends. Others, less badly injured, came in on foot, and it was from them that I received a first-hand account of the demonstration. There was little I could do, in my helpless state; but I wrote a letter at once to the Prefect, protesting against so outrageous a breach of the pact of conciliation, and expressing astonishment at the co-operation of the authorities in a flagrant act of aggression on a peaceful and unarmed populace. In conclusion, I accused him of being responsible for all that was happening, and begged him to assert his authority in suppressing further violence. I entrusted this letter to a friend of mine, a provincial councillor personally known to the Prefect. He found the latter in a state of ill-concealed agitation; he read the letter nervously, folded it up, put it in his pocket, took it out again and read it a second time. ‘I am not responsible,’ he exclaimed. ‘Why should I be responsible?’ The provincial councillor described to him the scenes of which he himself had been a witness. The Prefect listened, not without interest and sympathy. ‘The revolution is in process of development,’ he remarked, and added with some bitterness, ‘I represent the Government. Put yourself in my place’ My friend failed to obtain anything from him beyond a letter in reply to mine, containing a few patriotic expressions and ending with the hope that I would remember the exceptional gravity of the moment. I needed no reminder from the Prefect on this point. The situation was truly desperate, and there seemed no hope of intervention from any quarter. Meanwhile the wounded continued to arrive at the hospital. ‘We have been fooled,’ they all declared, ‘fooled by their pact of conciliation. We ought to have been prepared to defend ourselves,’ Some of them shed tears of rage. News of what was taking place reached us hour by hour. The Fascist column had managed to reform, and the demonstration, more closely guarded, was passing on its way w­ithout further molestation. But the shooting continued, and arrests were still being made.

46  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist A few machine-guns, posted at the cross-roads, were firing intermittently. No one remained in the streets, except a few persons in search of cover; but from the windows above, as the Fascist column passed by, water, chairs, tables, objects of every sort were thrown down: in one street even a bed. And from the houses, bolted and barred as they were, there came but one cry of rage: ‘Assassins! Assassins !’ A hospital attendant came to tell me that a badly wounded patient was anxious to see me, and I had myself taken at once to his bedside. It was an old comrade-in-arms of mine, named Efisio Melis. He had gone through the whole war in an infantry regiment and had been awarded the military medal. Afterwards he had worked as a factory hand, He was a well-known anti-Fascist, and I saw him frequently, being very fond of him. I found him now lying pale and motionless, on an improvised bed, and two of his friends, who had carried him to the hospital, told me of the assault made upon him. He had been standing in the street among other spectators, holding his little boy in his arms, when the Fascist column marched by, and like those around him he refused to take off his hat. A Fascist from his own parish had thereupon stabbed him twice in the abdomen. Melis was no coward, but the child in his arms prevented him from defending himself. The doctor in charge of his case told me there was not the faintest chance of saving his life. As soon as I reached his side he gripped my hand, and fixing his eyes on mine, whispered almost inaudibly: ‘The war! The war!’ These were the last words he uttered. What did he wish me to understand by this farewell? Was he remembering and perhaps regretting the war in which a man at least fell with arms in his hand? Or was he referring with horror to the yet more savage strife that had arisen in our own land under the cloak of politics? Among the wounded who arrived at the hospital were five members of the small boys’ army. They had marched out that afternoon in fighting order, with flags flying, but the Royal Guards had dispersed them with a volley. Over one hundred and fifty wounded, all members of the opposition, had presented themselves at the hospital for treatment. Every one of them was suffering from dagger or revolver wounds, and some were in a very serious condition. There were many others, too, who, although wounded, dared not come to the hospital for fear of arrest. In point of fact over a thousand anti-Fascists were arrested in the course of the day, and not a few wounded men had been seized at the very doors of the hospital and dragged away to prison. In the Fascist ranks there were only about a dozen cases of injury. As night fell a lugubrious silence descended upon the scene, broken at intervals by bugle-calls and the roll of drums. The tramp of the conquerors was accompanied, from time to time, by shouts of triumph, and as the mounted police rode by the clatter of their horses’ hoofs came as a reminder to the city that the forces of the State had set their seal upon the victory. From my hospital bed I could hear them distinctly, and in my fevered imagination I saw them pass, like a procession of spectres. My temperature had risen dangerously. In all my life I cannot remember living through hours of greater mental anguish. I had been through the whole war, taking part in many battles, and had known moments in which the mind seemed to hover between sanity and madness; but nothing could compare with the desperation of that night. Tragedy lies often, not in fighting, but in being unable to fight. Possibly that was what my dying friend had tried to convey to me. Later on even the Fascists grew weary of parading the streets, and an elementary school, prepared in advance, afforded them rest and shelter. A generous distribution of wine and

Chapter XII  47 liqueurs, provided by the Prefecture, revived their spirits, and soon the sound of songs and dancing was heard, to the beating of drums. The night resounded with the jubilation of the victors until they were finally overcome by wine and sleep. In all this the two bands of Fascist women had not disdained to take their share, On this very afternoon, Mussolini was solemnly addressing the Senate: ‘I do not intend to allow the laws to be broken or the Constitution to be infringed. It is my will that national discipline shall no longer be an empty word, nor the law a rusty weapon.’ The following morning the Fascists left Cagliari. At the railway station the band of the Royal Carabineers gave them musical honours and played the national anthem as they boarded their train. The morning edition of the Fascist newspaper published in huge type across the whole of its front page the words: ‘Victory! Victory! Victory!’ and a description followed of the great achievement. But in the official edition of the History of the Fascist Revolution, edited by Professor Chiurco, only a very brief account appears, as follows: ‘November 27. At Cagliari, during the march past of a Fascist column, a few incidents o­ccurred and there were a number of wounded.’ The police made further arrests among the opposition, and the next morning the most prominent manufacturers, agriculturists, and shopkeepers, together with all the public o­fficials, inscribed their names as members of the Fascio. They were the first of the c­onverts.

CHAPTER XIII

A FORTNIGHT later I was able to leave the hospital. Efisio Melis had died and an immense crowd had followed his funeral. My political friends implored me to go straight to Rome, to try and find some issue from an intolerable situation. I did not see the slightest chance of success through normal procedure, nor had I the faintest hope of any kind; but, none the less, I felt bound to go to Rome. In the train, during the latter part of my journey, I found myself in a carriage with an important staff officer who was aide-de-camp to the King. Before the war we had known each other in Rome, I as a student and he as a subaltern. Then we had met again during the war, when, as an artillery captain, he had been posted to my infantry detachment, and we had fought side by side during two actions on the Carso. Our war memories were still very vivid and he showed much pleasure at meeting me. We at once fell to recalling various war episodes in which we had both taken part, and, as often happens on such occasions, we unconsciously exaggerated the dangers we had run and the number of arms and prisoners captured from the enemy. This pleasant and friendly interchange brought us easily back to the comradeship of war-time. Moreover, in the midst of so many impromptu memories, my friend was soon relating various incidents of unrecorded audacity on the part of his battery, and was much gratified by my polite attention. Thus the ice was broken between us and we then drifted into political talk. It was naturally of especial interest to me to learn the opinions of a man so closely connected with the Quirinal. He immediately declared himself a convinced anti-Fascist and referred to Mussolini in terms of profound disdain. ‘Nevertheless, he must have considerable ability,’ I remarked tentatively. ‘Ability for being shot in the back,’ retorted the aide-de-camp promptly. ‘But why, then, did the King put him at the head of affairs?’ ‘His Majesty the King puts no more trust in him than the Emperor of Austria did in W­allenstein. His Majesty decided to make an experiment.’ ‘All the same, the experiment is a costly one, and it is we, the people of Italy, who have to pay for it’ ‘You and your friends,’ interrupted the officer courteously, ‘wanted a republic and socialism. You must surely admit that it was not possible for His Majesty to become either a Republican or a Socialist.’ ‘Your argument would be conclusive had the Republicans and Socialists been in office at the time. But on the contrary, it was the Monarchists who were in power. Why had the King no confidence in them? Why did he refuse to sign the decree establishing martial law?’ ‘His Majesty the King was compelled to act as he did by the circumstances of the moment: by the lack of energy shown by Signor Facta’s Government, and by the general confusion in Parliament. Moreover—it is no longer a secret—by the attitude of the Duke of Aosta.’

Chapter XIII  49 I had heard vague rumours about the part played in the crisis by the Duke, but was i­gnorant of any details. ‘What had the Duke of Aosta to do with it?’ I asked. ‘The Duke was supporting the Fascists, and had come to an agreement with Mussolini concerning the “March on Rome”. The King only learned this at the last moment and had not time to organize counter-measures. The Duke was threatening to appeal to the army: which meant, in other words, sedition and fratricidal war.’ ‘Did he really go as far as that?’ ‘He went even further. He let the King know that he intended to save the dynasty even at the cost of dethroning the King.’ ‘And do you think that if the Duke had appealed to the army he would have had any following?’ Without a moment’s hesitation came the reply. ‘No. The army obeys a single chief: the King. I am convinced that there is not a solitary officer who would hesitate one instant to obey the orders of his sovereign.’ ‘The example of the Duke of Aosta seems to prove the contrary. After all, he too is an officer and commander of an army corps.’ ‘The Duke,’ he replied, lowering his voice, ‘is consumed with ambition. The command of the third army corps has gone to his head. Then, he is a reactionary, closely related to the pretenders to the throne of France; he would like to give Rome back to the Pope and see the Bourbons reigning again. He cannot resign himself to ending his life as a mere prince, and he aspires to winning back in Italy the throne his father lost in Spain.’ ‘But did not the King believe that he could count on the loyalty of the whole army?’ ‘His Majesty never entertained the slightest doubt on the subject.’ ‘Then why in the world did he let himself be influenced by the Duke’s bombast?’ ‘In order to avoid a scandal which would have compromised the prestige of the monarchy and of Italy in the face of the whole world. Think what would have been said abroad!’ ‘So that the Italians are indebted to this suppressed scandal for the coup d’état and the Fascist dictatorship?’ ‘The Italians have the Government they deserve. And I must say that it seems strange to listen to demands for legality and respect for the Constitution from the very persons who want a revolution.’ In reality I was not demanding anything. My friend entered into further particulars, but our conversation kept coming back to Mussolini, and I was astonished at the hatred he showed for him. As we were entering Rome he suddenly said to me in a confidential tone of voice: ‘How is it that no one has thought of suppressing him?’ At the moment I was not paying attention, and innocently asked: ‘Who? The King?’ ‘No, no!’ he replied with horror. ‘I meant Mussolini.’ At the station we parted, and I did not see my friend for three years. We met, again by accident, towards the end of 1925, but only exchanged a few words. He had become a f­anatical Fascist. At the Quirinal much progress had evidently been made. Calm prevailed in the capital. Parliament had been adjourned. The leaders of the various opposition parties were all agreed that there was nothing now to be done but to wait They

50  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist still had faith in the King and the Constitution, though in little else. Opinions concerning the stability of Fascism varied greatly, some believing it would remain in power for ten years and some for only two months: the latter view was the most popular. From my conversations with representatives of various political groups I was able to draw no conclusions of any practical value. My few intimate political friends were absent from Rome. I met only one leader of the Christian Democratic Party, who had been uncompromising in his hostility to Fascism, and had often given expression to the most extreme views. ‘Come for a walk with me beyond the walls,’ he said. He was much depressed by the participation of his party in the Government, and was anxious to confide in me. Passing out by the Porta S. Sebastiano, we followed the Appian Way in the direction of the Castelli. The sun was shining as though it were spring. He dwelt on his bitter feelings concerning the political situation and related various recent examples of brutal Fascist reprisals. He assured me that very soon the Catholics would resign from the Government. When we had walked as far as the catacombs of Saint Callistus, my c­olleague suddenly stopped. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing to the catacombs. ‘How can force prevail against faith? What did the Roman emperors gain by their ruthless persecutions? Violence can crush material things but not the soul, which is indestructible. Christianity triumphed; the Empire collapsed. What would have happened if the early Christians had defended themselves with arms in their hands? Greater violence can triumph over lesser violence, but not over prayer and steadfast faith. Against these, tryanny is helpless.’ ‘But if tyranny is an evil thing, surely it is a duty to combat it?’ ‘Yes, to fight against it, but not with blows: by refusing one’s consent. Passive resistance is the weapon of civilization against barbarism.’ ‘What, then, will be your attitude and that of all those you represent in the face of these daily acts of violence?’ ‘Look,’ he said, and pointed again to the catacombs. We had passed the tomb of Cecilia Metella, and the Roman Campagna lay before us, with the ruins of the great aqueduct of Claudius standing out clearly against the l­andscape. ‘Behold the Empire!’ my friend remarked ironically. He had scarcely finished speaking and was still pointing towards the aqueduct, when a large lorry, full of armed and black-shirted squadristi drove rapidly by. The Fascist leader who was in command gave the Roman salute as he passed us and shouted: ‘Whom does Imperial Rome belong to?’ ‘To us!’ shouted the escort, wild with excitement. My colleague, after a moment’s hesitation, replied to the salute by raising his hat. ‘Why did you do that?’ I asked. He seemed embarrassed at the question, and turning rather red, replied: ‘The truth is that without our being aware of it we are already developing a slave m­entality.’ Telegrams continued to come from Sardinia telling me of the reprisals taken by the political authorities against members of the Opposition. People there still hoped for a general movement of revolt throughout Italy, but the situation was in truth desperate. To talk of revolt in Rome was to be treated as a madman. I even went so far as to approach certain

Chapter XIII  51 C­ommunist deputies. They were all agreed in regarding Fascist violence as ‘anti-historical’; it was useless therefore to oppose it with further violence, equally anti-historical, and one must wait for the development of an atmosphere favourable for ‘historical’ violence. One friend, who had come from Sardinia specially to tell me of what was going on, finished up by saying, ‘I cannot live in the midst of infamy. I would rather open a vein and bleed to death.’ When I pointed out to him that the situation throughout Italy was so desperate that no other alternative might be offered him, he suddenly relinquished his suicidal intentions. ‘Really?’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, I’ll be quite frank with you. It is impossible to go on like this. You may look on me as the meanest of traitors, but I shall end by going over to Fascism.’ As the reader will discover farther on, he had in him the makings of a prophet. In Rome one was able to pick up the most baffling news from all parts of the country. In the South, the majority on a large number of the communal administrative bodies had passed over to Fascism, in order, so it was said, to save the communes. In those cases where the majority remained hostile to the Government, it was the minority that turned Fascist in order to undermine the position of its opponents; this too, of course, was done in the interests of the commune. Thus it was exceedingly difficult to know what the situation really was. Sometimes both majority and minority declared themselves Fascist, but their mutual hostility only grew more bitter. Each side accused the other of being opportunists and profiteers, while every one claimed for himself the utmost purity of political idealism. They would dispatch emissaries to the capital to pull strings, offer their services, and put forward their respective claims. Frequently open fighting would take place, each party attempting to prove that it had a larger following and greater authority than its adversaries. And yet, only a few weeks earlier, they had all been either Liberals or Democrats. The peasantry followed these movements automatically, sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other. In many communes, if one side went over to Fascism the other would join the Nationalists, in order to be able openly to carry on their local disputes without falling into disgrace with the Government. Fascists and Nationalists were in reality exactly similar, except that the former wore a black and the latter a blue shirt, The former were under the immediate authority of Mussolini and the latter of Federzoni, Minister for the Colonies, who was himself under Mussolini’s orders. And it frequently happened that, in accordance with whatever influence was brought to bear from Rome, a man would change his shirt more than once in the course of a single week. In the North the situation was rather different. The industrialists and the big landed proprietors had nearly all joined the Fascist ranks, while the workmen and peasants remained hostile. But, even there, it was not unusual to find workers’ and peasants’ organizations going over to Fascism in the hope of saving themselves from violence and pillage. Meanwhile a Fascist expedition in the grand style had been carried out in Sardinia. This time the objective was Terranova, and two of my friends came from there to Rome to tell me what had occurred.

CHAPTER XIV

TERRANOVA is a little town on the north-east coast of Sardinia, at the point nearest to Civitavecchia, on the Italian mainland. The population was anti-Fascist, with the exception of a few commercial families. These latter put themselves in communication with the Fascists of Civitavecchia, and together they organized an armed expedition. Two hundred Fascists, armed with rifles, bombs, and two machine-guns, set out from Civitavecchia at nightfall by the mail-boat for Terranova. It was to be a surprise attack, only the police being in the secret. A few Fascists from Terranova acted as guides. The next morning at daybreak the steamer anchored at Terranova. The populace, in total ignorance of what was in store for them, were still asleep, when bombs suddenly began to explode and machine-guns to fire in the streets. The Fascists, divided into squads, surrounded the houses of all the well-known anti-Fascists and forced their way in. Meanwhile the police and the carabineers, fully cognizant of what was going on, obeyed their i­nstructions and remained in barracks. Some thirty anti-Fascists were surprised in their beds, bound, and dragged out into the streets. Others succeeded in escaping from their houses by way of windows and roofs into the open country, the Fascists having failed to block all the ways leading out of the town, as they had intended. The noise of rifle-fire and the exploding of bombs resounded in the half-dark streets behind the fugitives. The Fascists forced an entrance into the house of a doctor friend of mine by climbing through the windows. As luck would have it he himself was absent, but his sick and aged mother was alone in the house and was so overcome with terror that she lost her reason. The premises of the labour organizations and the ex-servicemen’s clubs were all sacked and their banners seized as trophies of victory. The well-maintained secrecy of the undertaking had ensured its success, and the sun rose on a conquered city. The captives, barefooted and clad for the most part only in their shirts, just as they had been dragged from their houses, were then marched into the principal square of the town. They were nearly all of them ex-combatants. The Blackshirts, with fixed bayonets, herded them along as though they were prisoners of war. A great gathering followed in the principal square of the town, to which every one had been summoned, and in accordance with all the rules of the accustomed ceremonial, a ‘­patriotic baptism’ thereupon took place. It was a ceremony originally instituted by the Fascists of northern and central Italy, who had been practising it for some time. In this so-called baptism, holy water was usually replaced by castor oil, which the neophite was called upon to swallow, voluntarily or by force. Many, in Turin, Milan, Florence and Bologna, had been compelled to drink as much as a couple of pints, and on such occasions the ‘baptism’ acquired a character of greater sanctity. Just as man, according to Catholic teaching, is redeemed from original sin by holy water, so, according to the Fascist faith, the anti-Fascist was redeemed from the sin of anti-Fascism, in other words, of treason, by castor oil. If the convert complied with the first

Chapter XIV  53 injunction and drank it off without protest, the ceremony was brief. If, on the other hand, he offered resistance, the procedure became more complex, and in these circumstances several anti-Fascists suffered death, for a man who refuses to bring about his own salvation is more useful to his country dead than alive. Romagna can boast several such martyrs. But in the majority of cases these extremities were avoided. The rebel, having been reduced to impotence, had his mouth forced open, often by means of a special form of gag invented in the early days of Fascism for use on these occasions. In cases of obstinate resistance, recourse was had to the stomach pump, as in hospitals. The dose of castor oil was scrupulously proportioned to the obstinacy of the victim and the measure of his treason. On certain occasions petrol, benzine, or sometimes tincture of iodine was added. Serious illness and even death often resulted from such treatment. Though usually reserved for men only, women were not wholly excluded from this ceremony; even in Rome, that twice sacred city, such female baptisms were not entirely unknown. In Sardinia, until this time, no one had been baptized in such a manner. Civilization has always been somewhat backward in the island, compared with the rest of Italy. The Fascists, having foreseen that the local chemists were unlikely to stock sufficient supplies of castor oil, had prudently brought large quantities with them. Their organization was certainly admirable. They had four stretchers in case of emergency, and the expedition could even boast a military chaplain in the person of an ex-friar who had fought in the war. He was unarmed, and in place of a revolver, he carried a crucifix and wore the Red Cross armlet. The ceremony began with a roll of drums and the leader of the expedition made a short speech. Then holding his revolver to the temple of the first victim, he pronounced the sacramental formula: ‘Drink, in the name of your country!’ One by one, some with reluctance and some with self-possession, all drank. One only, a peasant ex-serviceman, refused outright. This took the Fascist leader by surprise and he demanded an explanation. But the peasant had concentrated his whole will on his act of resistance and would not utter a word. Renewed threats with the revolver proved vain. The Fascists, indignant at such a challenge to their authority, immediately clamoured for his life. In the square the women wept and screamed in terror. ‘Silence!’ shouted the leader, and ordered the drums to beat. When they had ceased he repeated, in solemn tones, and for the last time, the injunction to drink. But the peasant had lost all patience. Looking his adversary full in the face he shouted a word which, in the interests of decency, does not usually appear in print. He said nothing further, but this was more than enough. The sanctity of the baptism had been contaminated. The Fascist leader had apparently no desire to shed blood. ‘Give him a knock on the head!’ he ordered his second in command. The latter, an enormous fellow, covered with badges and decorations, seized his bludgeon with both hands, and brought it down heavily on the head of the miscreant, who fell unconscious to the ground. The stretcher-bearers were then called and ordered to carry him home. The ceremony appeared to be coming to an end. Among the prisoners was one of the leading local anti-Fascists, a lawyer who had belonged to the Democratic Socialist Party. He was sixty years of age, in bad health, and having been brought out only half-dressed, he was suffering greatly from the cold. Anxiety on behalf of a large family and a natural desire for peace had induced him that m­orning

54  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist to adopt an attitude of submission in which heroism had certainly played no part. He too had drunk his castor oil and, because of his importance, had been dealt out a double dose, amounting to about a pint. He had forced himself to swallow it, with his eyes shut, mainly because he hoped that, having satisfied the invaders, he would be allowed to go back home. But he was ignorant of the fact that he had been selected for a leading part in the programme. When the baptisms were over, the Fascist leader ordered a large table to be placed in the middle of the square, and then invited the lawyer to mount it and make a speech in praise of Mussolini. Under normal circumstances a lawyer finds no difficulty in giving expression to views differing from his own; but on this occasion he mustered all the self-respect that remained to him after drinking the castor oil and quietly answered that he would not speak. ‘This is no time for joking,’ retorted the leader of the Fascists. ‘You’ve been making lying speeches all your life: do you want to excuse yourself now when you have the chance of speaking the truth?’ And he ordered a couple of blows, though not heavy ones, to be given him. The poor man did not utter a word. While these preliminaries were in progress the lawyer’s two daughters, one a mere child, the other a girl of fifteen, arrived on the scene. The women of his household, not knowing where he had been taken, had gone out in search of him, and his daughters were the first to find him. Having pushed their way through the Fascist ranks, they flung themselves, sobbing, into his arms. This reunion had no effect on the Fascist leader. A self-respecting soldier refuses to be disconcerted by tears any more than by violence. He had the two children removed, and again requested the lawyer to speak. A fresh refusal followed and a further administration of the bludgeon. The old man still made no complaint, but from the crowd the children screamed: ‘Don’t kill Father! Don’t kill Father!’ Again an invitation to speak and again a refusal. But this time the two girls managed once more to break through the ranks and implored their father’s tormentor not to kill him. ‘Can’t you speak?’ he shouted in exasperation to the lawyer. ‘Speak for the sake of your children.’ He was beginning to feel moved. The two girls understood that their father could save himself by speaking, and they too began to implore him: ‘Speak, father! Won’t you speak?’ Where blows had failed, the tears of his two daughters succeeded. The lawyer mounted the table. A shout of triumph rose from the Fascist ranks; they had won, and the lawyer was about to make his speech. ‘The benefits conferred by the Government of Mussolini——’ he began. ‘Speak first of the crimes of the democratic parties,’ interrupted the Fascist leader. The lawyer obeyed. ‘Say they betrayed their country!’ The lawyer repeated the words. The Fascists were greatly entertained. Every sentence was hailed with noisy laughter, mingled with insults; but the vigilant eye of their leader prevented any acts of violence. ‘Now speak in praise of Mussolini,’ he prompted. The lawyer did so, amid general hilarity. At this point the unforeseen occurred. Livid, hardly able to stand, the poor man seemed on the point of collapse; but with a shudder, he managed to pull himself together and, clenching his fists, shouted in a hoarse voice: ‘Scoundrels!’

Chapter XIV  55 Then he pitched off the table on to the ground, apparently lifeless. For a few moments he was thought to be really dead, but the chaplain, who also acted as doctor, found he was only unconscious. The ambulance-men placed him on a stretcher and carried him home, followed by his daughters. All the remaining prisoners were set at liberty. The Fascist ranks were re-formed and the column marched down to the port, with flags flying, while the hymn of victory rose upon the air: Giovinezza, giovinezza! Primavera di bellezza; Nel fascismo è la salvezza Della nostra libertà.1

The population remained in their houses behind locked doors until the Blackshirts had departed, and it was only then that the carabineers and the police emerged from their barracks. As the steamer left the quay-side the Fascists were all drawn up on the deck. ‘To whom does Sardinia belong?’ shouted the leader. ‘To us!’ came the reply in chorus. Machine-guns were thereupon fired and bombs exploded to celebrate the defeat of the islanders. It was no use my remaining in Rome. There was nothing I could hope to gain by it, and I decided to return that very day to Sardinia. But before starting I was anxious to see the Director-General of Public Safety, General De Bono, who had been a member of the Fascist Quadrumvirate at the time of the ‘March on Rome’. I had met him during the war, when he was colonel in command of a regiment of bersaglieri on the Carso. My regiment had been sent to relieve his on the eve of an attack on positions which he considered impregnable. He had in fact already attacked them without success, and had suffered serious losses. On this occasion he had said to us, ‘lf you and your Sardinians capture the positions we have in front of us I’ll resign my commission and join your regiment as a corporal.’ Since then I had never seen him again. We succeeded in capturing the enemy’s positions after desperate fighting, as a result of which our regiment was mentioned in dispatches. Now, after seven years, we were to meet once more. This time it was he who had been capturing positions and I who had lost them. The general1 received me with hostility. I reminded him of our meeting on the Carso, and of his promise; and related to him all that I knew concerning the Fascist expedition to Terranova, telling him that the men who, by his orders, had been attacked in their own houses and subjected to the most outrageous treatment were the very ex-servicemen in whose ranks he had declared that he would be proud to serve as a corporal.  Youth, youth! Spring of beauty; In Fascism is the salvation Of our liberty. 1   It was this same General De Bono who was given command of the Italian forces by Mussolini at the beginning of the Abyssinian War. 1

56  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist I have frequently had occasion to note that certain generals are endowed with sensibility of a quite special kind. They can remain unmoved before the massacre of ten regiments, and yet if one brings to bear a certain pathos in recalling the scene to their minds they may be moved even to tears. General De Bono had his handkerchief to his eyes. He was weeping, I was bewildered. It was inconceivable that he should be pretending; why indeed, should he pretend before me? The human soul has unfathomable depths. In the same way, in 1924, De Bono was to weep, among friends, when referring to the murder of Matteotti, by which he himself was compromised. He recovered his composure. ‘I assure you, on my honour as a soldier, that such disgraceful scenes shall not occur again,’ he declared in resolute tones. ‘But worse than that has happened,’ I added, and related the incidents at Cagliari. ‘Ah! I had nothing to do with that.’ ‘And who, but you, can give orders to the police for such proceedings?’ ‘The Duce in person,’ replied the general, with a gesture of discouragement. Then he became confidential. ‘Politics,’ he declared, ‘are a dirty business. I was far happier among my soldiers: whereas now you can see what a wretched position I am in. Free-will is all nonsense. Over and over again, in our lives, events occur, quite outside our control, which nevertheless constrain our wills. One acts in a certain way, not because one wants to, but because one cannot help oneself. We are the slaves of fate.’ The general seemed again on the verge of giving way to his emotion, but with an effort he pulled himself together and went on: ‘In Italy people speak of me as though I were a scoundrel. Don’t contradict me’, (I had not done so) ‘I know what I’m saying. But answer me with absolute honesty: am I, in your opinion, a scoundrel?’ ‘The point is,’ I replied, avoiding a direct reply, ‘are you in command of the police, or are you not?’ ‘Certainly I am in command of the police. I’m not a man of straw. Without me the March on Rome would have been an utter failure. I know my job. Mussolini knows as much about military tactics as a corporal about cooking. But I command only up to a point; I command, yet I also have to obey. I am really in a very awkward position.’ ‘Why not get out of it?’ I suggested. ‘Impossible. But I swear to you that hence-forward I shall devote my life to restoring order.’ The general appeared to be suddenly animated by remarkable enthusiasm for the law. He called a secretary and instructed him, in my presence, to telegraph immediately to every Prefect in Sardinia that all illegality on the part of the Fascists was to be sternly repressed. ‘The ex-servicemen,’ he declared to the secretary, ‘must be regarded as the first citizens of Italy, whatever party they belong to.’ Then turning to me he added: ‘And not only the ex-servicemen. Every Italian has his rights of citizenship. From now onwards all shall be equal before the law. I shall be inflexible. Either the Prime Minister must follow my lead in this matter, or Italy will hear more of me.’ He was silent for a moment and then added: ‘And Europe, too, perhaps.’ The conversation had lasted a long time. The general insisted on escorting me to the stairs. As I descended, I heard his voice again. Leaning over the banisters he called out to me: ‘On the word of General De Bono.’

Chapter XIV  57 That evening, before I left Rome, a Turin parliamentary deputy gave me a report of the massacre that had taken place in his city on the night of December 18th. Twenty-one working-men had been dragged by the Fascists from their beds, conveyed outside the city in a lorry, and shot before dawn. Neither the police nor the judicial authorities had taken any action. A few days later the consul Brandimarte, head of the Turin Blackshirts, when interviewed by newspaper reporters, declared: ‘I had to do it, to give the anti-Fascists a lesson they would not forget.’

CHAPTER XV

IT was a few days before Christmas, which, as usual, I intended spending with my mother in the country. In Sardinia, Christmas is kept with the primitive customs which an agelong tradition has preserved unchanged. All the sons and daughters assemble under the paternal roof and celebrate the unity of the family round a great patriarchal fire. I was convinced that, for such an occasion, there would be a truce in the civil war. Was not Christmas observed even in the trenches on every front during the Great War? But civil strife has horrors unknown to other conflicts. As soon as I had disembarked on the island, at Terranova, I became aware of something unusual, and quickly realized that I was under police surveillance. It was evident that the island authorities had been informed of my arrival and that the telegrams of the Director-General of Public Safety had been sent off in all seriousness. After a few minutes a c­ommissario of police came forward to offer me the compliments of the season. ‘I have received orders,’ he said, ‘to inform you that you will not be allowed to remain at Terranova, or rather, you are at liberty to go or to remain, but if you remain, I am instructed to arrest all the leading members of the opposition in the town.’ And he explained to me that special contingents of carabineers and police had arrived for the occasion. I pointed out to him that such action on his part was indirectly limiting the freedom of a Member of Parliament; but the commissario did not seem to suffer from any constitutional scruples. At this juncture a friend of mine arrived and informed me that the town was virtually in a state of siege: he himself implored me to leave it, and from the way he spoke I gathered that the inhabitants were utterly terrorized. I left immediately, and managed to confer with a few political friends in the neighbourhood, who gave me news of all the recent occurrences. Detachments of armed troops continued to arrive from the mainland, and quarters were being prepared for two regiments of artillery. It was clear that the new Government intended to consolidate its power in the island. Some of my friends were proposing the most desperate measures of defence. ‘I shall barricade my house,’ a lawyer said to me, ‘and defend myself to the last cartridge. I have also laid in a stock of barbed wire. The Fascists can come! They will have to bring up artillery before they capture me.’ If the reader continues to follow with any interest the vicissitudes of this struggle, he will be able to witness the defence put up by this doughty lawyer when his turn came to be attacked. It may be as well to state at once that no blood was shed on that occasion. In the end I started by train for Cagliari, intending to spend at least one day in the city before going on to stay with my mother. But at a small station on the way a youthful member of my party jumped into my carriage, in a state of great excitement, and hurriedly told me that I must not continue my journey to Cagliari, but must get out at a previous station, where friends would be waiting for me. He explained that Cagliari had been occupied by

Chapter XV  59 troops on the day before and that, except for a still greater display of force, the history of November 27th had been repeated, The premises of all the organizations and newspapers hostile to Fascism had been sacked, and my own house broken into. The Fascists were waiting for me at the station and were determined to put an end to me; in no circumstances must I attempt to enter the town, as no one would be able to protect me and I should most certainly be killed. Many of my friends were already in prison, but a few had been able to get away and had improvised a liaison service at all the intermediate stations with the object of intercepting me, for they were convinced that it was impossible to do anything now beyond saving my life. We got out at the station decided on, and found a group of my friends anxiously a­waiting me. There was no longer any shadow of doubt: all the forces of the State were under the orders of Fascism. Cagliari, the capital of the island and once the centre of the democratic movement, was in the hands of the Fascists. The following day, at Nuoro, a town in the centre of the island, we held a meeting of the principal representatives of the opposition, to discuss the situation. Any offensive movement on our part was impossible, and scarcely less so any defensive movement on a large scale, as the police would certainly crush it from the outset. Nothing remained to us except to put up individual resistance, and those of the opposition who had most cause to fear aggression proceeded to arm themselves and put their houses in a state of defence. I continued my journey, having first telegraphed to my mother that I would reach home before nightfall. In order not to pass through Cagliari I took a longer route and left the train at Senorbì, where I intended to spend a few hours with a friend, and from there to complete my journey by car. It was Christmas Eve. Senorbì is a small agricultural centre. The inhabitants, nearly all peasants, had up till then been opposed to Fascism, and my friend was the leader of the opposition there. He and I had been fellow-students at the university and comrades during the war, and were united by a very warm friendship. I found him at home with his father and sister, his two brothers being at the moment out of the house. They had all come from various places to spend Christmas together. I was told at once that the district was in a ferment, because during the previous few days a Fascist organization had been started there, at the instigation of a few local land-owners, and with the help of some Blackshirts from Cagliari. While we were talking, the two brothers came in. One was still a student, and the other had during the war been an officer in the Flying Corps. He was an ardent anti-Fascist. He told us that the local Fascists had intercepted my telegram and were therefore aware of my presence in the town, in fact, they were beginning to collect in the main square with o­bviously hostile intentions. An immediate departure would have given the impression of flight, and I therefore delayed matters. This was a mistake on my part, for it gave the Fascists time to organize themselves and to await the arrival of other detachments from the surrounding villages. Shouting could be heard in the square, and one of my friends went out to reconnoitre, but returned at once in some alarm. The Fascists had already surrounded the house with a view to effecting my capture. The next minute two knocks resounded on the front door of the house. A servant went to open it, and a Fascist appeared, wearing a black shirt and armed with revolver and d­agger.

60  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist In an authoritative voice, he loudly announced: ‘We will give you five minutes. Either you hand over the deputy, or we attack the house.’ ‘Ruffian!’ shouted the master of the house in a rage. The Fascist disappeared and the door was shut. I begged my hosts to forgive me for the trouble I had unintentionally brought upon them, and rose to go. I was much annoyed at the predicament we were in, and especially worried by the presence of my friend’s sister. She was trembling with fear, but nevertheless managed to say in a somewhat shaky voice, ‘I would rather die than bring shame on our house by allowing a guest to be turned out.’ I still insisted on leaving. But the father, re-asserting his authority as head of the family, said to me resolutely, ‘I trust that you will do me the courtesy of regarding me as a man of honour. You must not leave the house. I cannot allow such a disgrace to fall on my family. Let them attack us if they like; we shall defend ourselves.’ And he ordered their weapons to be got out; there were two army rifles and four sporting-guns. I could insist no further. A peasant, who had fought in the war and happened to be in the house, begged for one of the guns. Thus we were six men, four of whom were ex-combatants. We could count on a defence in accordance with all the rules of military science. The aviator got tired of waiting and called out in a loud voice, ‘The five minutes are up. Come in! Come in! A thousand lire to whoever enters first.’ The Fascists heard us and replied by shouting a few insulting remarks. The house was completely surrounded, but no one dared enter. Threats of death were made against me and the main door was battered with stones and blows from their bludgeons. All this, together with the barking of the house-dogs, made a deafening noise. ‘We might be in Abyssinia,’ whispered the girl, who was crouching trembling beside one of her brothers. ‘Cowards!’ shouted the Fascists. ‘Come out, if you dare!’ For some time the situation remained unchanged. I did not go out and the Fascists would not come in. The turmoil outside grew worse. But I could not allow the family to remain in a perpetual state of siege on my account. My hosts understood my compuction, but urged me to wait till nightfall, when I might be able to get away unobserved. ‘Before then,’ they added, ‘everybody will be back from work and the peasants will come to our help.’ The idea of flight has never appealed to me. This is no doubt largely due to an impression of my childhood. I once saw a man running away, followed by carabineers, and every one shouting, ‘Thief! Thief!’; so that the idea of running away has always been associated in my mind with theft. Moreover, I had not much faith in the intervention of the peasantry on their return from work. I realized that the boldest among them would be arrested on their arrival and that the remainder would be left without leaders. I had my revolver in my pocket, and before my friends had time to stop me, I went quickly to the front door, flung it open and came face to face with the Fascists. The unexpected always contains an element of success, whether on the stage or in real life. The Fascists gazed at me more in astonishment than anything else; matters had taken a new turn. I asked them what they wanted, and as I did so, I saw that my hosts had followed me and were all standing by my side. I recognized the leader of the Fascists as a man I had

Chapter XV  61 known for years. During the war he had served in my company as a non-commissioned officer, but was subsequently given the rank of officer in the arditi. He had had a particularly distinguished war record; afterwards, his restless temperament had carried him into the political struggle, but it was only recently that he had become a Fascist. When I saw him I asked: ‘Is it you who are in command of this gang?’ He replied with some embarrassment that he was carrying out orders, and begged me to remain calm. It became evident that the situation was less critical than it had seemed a few minutes earlier. The officer asked me to accompany him to the premises of a local club, where, he explained, I was awaited. He marched in front of me and we passed between a double file of Fascists and a few curious onlookers. To keep myself in countenance I assumed the air of an officer making an inspection. A black-shirted peasant, old and toothless, laughed in my face and then, suddenly, as I passed in front of him, raised his revolver and shouted: ‘Death to Lussu!’ The officer promptly wheeled round and brought his bludgeon down on the man’s head, felling him to the ground. ‘Silence and discipline!’ he commanded. ‘Long live Lussu!’ shouted a man, who evidently found the situation somewhat difficult to follow. ‘Long live Lussu!’ repeated various persons in the crowd, including my friends, who were still accompanying me. ‘We shall soon have a party of our own,’ I said to myself. More people were crowding round us, and I recognized several ex-servicemen who had belonged to my battalion. The club was quite close and we reached it in a few minutes. The officer disappeared and I remained among the Fascists. While waiting, I started a conversation with the men nearest me. They were peasants, belonging to the place. ‘What is it you want?’ I asked. ‘We want Nice and Savoy and Dalmatia. After the war we were done out of everything our victory ought to have brought us,’ replied a youth. It appeared to me injudicious to start a discussion concerning our frontiers. ‘Well, take them,’ I replied. ‘I am not preventing you.’ ‘We want the aqueduct,’ declared the oldest of the men present. And as I failed to understand what he meant he reminded me that the village lacked water and that they had been waiting for an aqueduct for the last fifty years. ‘I was a child when we were first promised an aqueduct,’ he said plaintively, ‘and now my hair is white, but still the water has not come.’ And he gave me to understand that their resentment against me was largely on this score, because the Fascists had assured them that I was opposed to the scheme. I explained that I myself much preferred water to wine, and that there was no earthly reason why I should want to prevent them having their aqueduct. As far as I was concerned they might spend their lives paddling in water like ducks. A few smiled at this, so, feeling encouraged, I went on, ‘And is that why you wanted to kill me? You really think that the death of a deputy would help to bring water to your v­illage? It seems to me you were more eager for blood than water.’ By this time those who were farther off were anxious to hear what I was saying, and crowded round me, A sympathetic atmosphere had been created, and one of the Fascists reminded me that he had taken part in two engagements on the Asiago plateau with me during the war.

62  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist The officer then returned and requested me to follow him to an inner room. We entered it together. In the middle of the room, at a round table, was seated an elderly man whom I at once recognized as the local lawyer. He was wearing his hat, and his portfolio and papers were spread out in front of him. At the first moment I fancied he wanted me to make my will. ‘Stand up!’ ordered the officer. Every one stood up, and at a sign from the officer the notary took off his hat and handed me a sheet of official paper. ‘Have the goodness to sign this,’ he said politely. I glanced at the paper. It was a legal document beginning: ‘In the name of H.M.Victor Emanuel III, by the Grace of God and the Will of the People, etc., etc.’ There followed a declaration in which I disavowed my political past and recognized Fascism as the only party capable of saving Italy. At the end were the words: ‘Read, approved and signed.’ I was expected to sign. ‘Was it you who drew this up?’ I asked the lawyer. ‘Yes, certainly,’ he replied, as polite as ever. ‘This document does not concern me,’ I said to the officer, and handed it back to the lawyer. But the officer did not share my opinion. ‘He refuses to sign,’ he shouted to his men. ‘Fascists!’ ‘A noi!’ answered the Blackshirts brandishing revolvers and bludgeons in the air. The situation had again become difficult. Excitement prevailed both in the room and outside, and I realized that I had lost all the ground gained a few minutes before. The men around me became threatening and two of them already had their revolvers to my chest. I was still armed, but in such circumstances no weapon was of much use to me. I attempted to speak in order to gain time, but whenever I opened my mouth my words were drowned by angry shouts. ‘That wretched aqueduct!’ I said to myself. ‘Let him speak,’ said a deep voice, suddenly. Every one was silent and I seized this momentary advantage to turn towards a group of ex-servicemen. ‘As it’s a murder you want to commit,’ I said, ‘you’d better economize your a­mmunition. Here is the revolver I used in the war. Whoever has fewest scruples can fire first.’ With these words I held out my revolver. No one moved. From their looks I saw that for the moment I was master of the situation. ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘in that case let me go.’ The Fascists nearest me moved aside and I turned towards the door. But as I reached it there came another shout of ‘Death to Lussu!’ from outside. It was clear that I was not to be let off so easily. The deus ex machina is not always a mere figure of speech. At that very instant the roar of a powerful motor attracted every one’s attention. A racing-car drove rapidly up to the door of the club-house and a young man, tall and thin and covered with dust, sprang out. He was a personal friend of mine, the Sardinian representative of the disabled soldiers, and he held a safe-conduct from the Fascists authorizing him to go about as he pleased. The moment he caught sight of me he realized what was happening, and rushed into the room. ‘Long live Italy!’ he cried, and diplomatically embraced both me and the leader of the Fascists. Then, without waiting a moment, he began in ringing tones and with dramatic

Chapter XV  63 gestures to talk of the war and of our victory, of our heroes and our martyrs. Every one listened enthralled. He was ready to go bail for me with his eyes shut, he declared. He, the leader of the disabled soldiers, would answer for an ex-combatant. Talking all the while, he took me by the arm and led me to his car. No one dreamed of stopping us. We jumped in and in another moment had shot away at lightning speed. I arrived at my mother’s house at a late hour that night. My brother came out to meet me, and I told him what had happened. My mother had been waiting in the greatest anxiety, fearing that some disaster had befallen me. Deeply moved, she took me in her arms and welcomed me with the traditional salutation for Christmas night. ‘Peace! Christ is born on earth.’ But I was still thinking of the Fascists, and failed to reply. My mother waited in surprise. Then my brother embraced us both and replied for me: ‘Peace! Christ is born on earth.’

CHAPTER XVI

WHILST I was being besieged in the house at Senorbì the Fascists of Iglesias and Gonnesa were marching on Porto Scuso. There were about fifty of them, all armed, and they were led by a certain De-Filippi. This man belonged to a well-to-do family of Terranova. He was twenty-five years of age and an only son. After the war he had spent his time squandering his patrimony until his family, tired of paying his debts, were forced to turn him out of the house. After wandering about for some time he had settled down as a chauffeur at Iglesias and soon became the leader of the local Fascists. The arrival of the expedition took Porto Scuso entirely by surprise. Porto Scuso is a little port which exists mainly on its fishing and its coastal trade. The fishermen, boatmen, and workers in the port constituted the principal syndical and political organization in the place; they had all done their war-service in the navy, and there was little sympathy for Fascism to be found among them. Their leaders were two brothers named Fois, sons of an old elementary schoolmistress who was adored by every one for her great goodness. These two men had considerable influence locally, and had aroused the enmity of an ex-mayor of the town, who was being proceeded against for malversation of funds during his period of office. In order both to defend himself and to take vengeance on his enemies he had, on learning of the conquest of Cagliari, promptly organized a Fascist section at Porto Scuso. It was at his instigation that the expedition, which he accompanied in the role of guide, had been planned against the little town. When the Fascist column arrived at Porto Scuso the fishermen were at sea and many of the boatmen at work on the quays loading cargo. They only saw the Fascists when the latter appeared at the port. ‘Which of you is Salvatore Fois?’ demanded the leader of the Blackshirts. ‘I am,’ answered a voice from a boat and the man stepped out on to the quay. In an instant he was surrounded by the Fascists. Covering him with their revolvers they ordered him to cry, ‘Long live Fascism!’ ‘I refuse to do anything so cowardly,’ Fois replied. A voice gave the order to fire and he fell dead. At the sound of firing the boatmen near by became panic-stricken and fled. But the dead man’s brother stood his ground on the quay-side. Alone and unarmed, with clenched fists, he turned on the Fascists. He was met by a second volley and he too fell, riddled with b­ullets, by his brother’s side. ‘So may all traitors die,’ was the comment of the ex-mayor. The boatmen, having taken to their boats, were making for the open sea, and the Fascists, unable to reach them, fired their rifles at the sails. Then, having posted a guard over the corpses, they set off on a march through the town, singing war-songs, to celebrate so notable a victory.

Chapter XVI  65 The inhabitants did not stay to witness their triumph. The church bells were pealing wildly, as they had done in medieval times at a sudden invasion of Tunisian pirates, and the alarm resounded along the coast. The inhabitants fled into the fields; only a few families remained in the town, and barricaded themselves into their houses. The Fascists sacked the houses of all the leading anti-Fascists, as well as the offices of the workers’ organizations. The aged mother of the Fois brothers, accompanied by her daughter, dragged herself to the side of her murdered sons. The Fascists on guard would not allow the bodies to be touched and tried to drive the women away. But threats had no effect; they remained by their loved ones and they too, crouching motionless on the ground, might well have been taken for dead. Only at nightfall did the Fascists permit the bodies to be taken away. The two brothers were laid out side by side in their parents’ house, and piously covered with flowers by their womenfolk. Bitter lamentations rose up from the mourners around the bier and the sound penetrated into the street. The Fascists looked on this as a fresh offence. They again appeared on the scene, their revolvers in their hands; all the mourners not belonging to the house were driven away and the women were forbidden to make their grief audible. The Fascists marched back to Iglesias and Gonnesa: Porto Scuso had been conquered. The Prefect proceeded to dissolve the municipal council, and the ex-mayor was appointed royal commissary of the commune. The police and the judicial authorities took no notice of what had occurred. For a whole year every possible effort was made to hush the matter up, and the few who attempted to obtain justice were easily silenced. But the relatives of the dead men did not lose courage. A general amnesty had been proclaimed on December 22nd for all political crimes previous to that date; the events at Porto Scuso had taken place two days later and were therefore not covered by the amnesty. Profiting by a favourable moment when a feud had broken out between the island Fascists, the family succeeded in obtaining an order from a magistrate that criminal proceedings should be instituted, De-Filippi and four of the Fascists responsible were arrested and brought to trial at Cagliari before a jury. The trial took place amid exceptional measures for the maintenance of public order. A great many inhabitants of Porto Scuso had flocked into the city to attend it, and there was much excitement locally. I was one of the advocates for the family of the dead men. Every morning, on the arrival of the accused, the Fascists of Cagliari turned out to receive them with musical honours. But the prisoners seemed far from cheerful; murder weighs heavily on the conscience. They maintained that they had never fired a shot. ‘We will not permit any judgment to be passed on the March on Rome,’ the lawyers for the defence asserted, over and over again. ‘Certainly not!’ protested the presiding judge. ‘But this is a question of the march on Porto Scuso.’ The ex-mayor came forward as a witness for the defence, ostentatiously wearing in his button-hole the ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy. He had been made a cavaliere for his recent good services. ‘I wish to state,’ he said, ‘that since the disappearance of the Fois brothers there has been no further public disorder in the commune.’ ‘Murderer!’ shouted all the other witnesses simultaneously as well as the public in the gallery. Insults were hurled at the witness and the President was compelled to adjourn the

66  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist court. When proceedings were resumed, and I was returning to my seat, an envelope was put into my hands. In it I found a note saying: ‘Either you will refrain from speaking, or we will kill you like a dog. Long live Italy! A group of veteran Fascists.’

In spite of the authority of the President, the excitement in the court was intense. When the women testified that they had been forbidden at the point of the revolver to bewail their dead, a veritable storm of protest broke out. One of the leading officers of the Crown, who, until then, had only intervened in an effort to minimize the responsibility of the accused, declared sternly: ‘When crime takes on forms such as these there can be no question of political justification. Politics have nothing to do with the case.’ But politics had a great deal to do with it. The Prefect made every effort in private to convince the jury of the necessity for an acquittal, and even the Archbishop was induced to bring his influence to bear in order to obtain one. It was asserted that for reasons of prestige the Government’s policy must not receive a check. The whole Fascist Press reiterated this argument, and between the lines it was easy to read threats of reprisals. On the day the verdict was to be announced a column of local Fascists was waiting in the vicinity of the law courts for news of the acquittal. Their band was playing and numerous cars were ready to drive the liberated men and their companions back to Iglesias, where a banquet for three hundred guests was awaiting them. A triumphant welcome had been prepared, since an acquittal was regarded as a certainty. But the jury returned a unanimous verdict of guilty. It was clear that an abyss separated the Fascist outlook from that of the island. One of the condemned men quietly said: ‘We’ve deserved no less.’ But De-Filippi was not of the same opinion. He had been quite sure of an acquittal, and when he found himself condemned to twenty years’ penal servitude he assumed an air of bravado. Turning towards us he shouted: ‘I don’t care a curse!’ The words were uttered in true Fascist style and given the circumstances they gained him the reputation of a martyr among his companions. The Fascists outside dispersed, the band from Iglesias stopped playing, and the cars returned to their garages. The banquet did not take place. The caterer who had incurred the whole expense subsequently demanded payment in full, which led to a lengthy dispute; in the end the man was never paid and, since he had made a nuisance of himself, was finally expelled from the Fascist ranks for ‘political unworthiness’. The following day De-Filippi found means to send me word that he would not be long in prison, and that the day he came out would be the day of my own death. The threat and the prophecy did not work out exactly as he predicted, but this was in no way his fault. The Fascist authorities were determined that the verdict of the local jury should not be allowed to stand. They regarded it as an unbearable affront and a challenge to the authority of the Government. Signor Rocco, Minister of Justice, who concerned himself personally in the matter, pronounced the verdict a miscarriage of justice, and by invoking the rights of the Crown he was able to grant a free pardon two years later to the condemned men.

Chapter XVI  67 They were released from prison, and proceeded to take part in festivities similar to those unfortunately denied them on a previous occasion. Great celebrations took place at Iglesias in their honour, ending in a triumphant march through the town to the strains of a song that had become by that time, if not popular, at least notorious, in Italy: Me ne frego de la galera camicia nera, trionferà.1

De-Filippi came out of prison and I went in. He did not forget me and sent me a post card with the words: ‘You can thank heaven that you are safe in prison.’ But we must return to Christmas 1922. The Fascists of Cagliari were exceedingly indignant that I should have escaped in safety after having been run to earth at Senorbì. They held a meeting at which they solemnly swore to take me dead or alive, and an armed expedition was immediately prepared for this purpose. But my friends gave me warning and I was able to take the necessary defensive measures in time. The village to which I retreated was high up in the mountains and very difficult to reach. I had all the approaches watched and for a fortnight I lived in much the same way as at a frontier outpost in war-time, with an elaborate system of sentries and patrols to guard me. Ex-servicemen formed the strongest contingent of my supporters. During these days the village was entirely cut off from the world. Four times over the Fascists started off to capture me in lorries mounted with machine-guns, but half-way up they thought better of it and turned back again. It is not pleasant taking risks in unfamiliar mountain country, amid hostile inhabitants. Greatly discouraged, they asked for the loan of a battery of field a­rtillery, but the Prefect refused to let them have it. So I was left in peace. All these incidents were very far from creating that state of calm in the island which victors like to impose on the conquered. An amnesty had indeed been granted for all political crimes, but everywhere acts of violence still continued. In Marmilla, an agricultural district not far from Cagliari, a man named Sanna, condemned to death during the war for desertion and looting, had become notorious as a Fascist leader and, at the head of a group of Blackshirt squads, was terrorizing the neighbourhood. At Desulo, the Fascists broke into the house of two opponents during a nocturnal raid, and carried off money, objects of value and food. At Cagliari an anti-Fascist ex-serviceman, Cesare Frongia, well known for his war record, was murdered openly in broad daylight, and in the same city the widow of Efisio Melis was insulted and attacked in the cemetery, with the intention of preventing her taking flowers to her husband’s grave.

 I don’t care a curse   If I end in jail, The Blackshirts’ triumph   Shall prevail.

1

68  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist News of these acts of violence spread through the island and Fascism came to be looked on no longer as a political party but as a form of brigandage under the protection of the State. The big landed proprietors gave it their support, but among the rest of the population rage and disgust increased day by day. Such a situation could not commend itself to the Government, which badly needed popular support and in particular the support of the ex-combatants, of whom Mussolini professed to be the direct representative. For this reason there was a sudden change in official policy. The Prefects were dismissed and General Gandolfo, representing Fascism and the Government, was sent to Sardinia as Prefect, armed with full powers.

CHAPTER XVII

GENERAL GANDOLFO had been in command of the Eighth Army Corps at the end of the war. In October 1918, during the battle of Vittorio Veneto, he had suffered a series of reverses between Montello and the Grave di Papadopoli, and had been relieved of his command. An early convert to Fascism, he had at once become one of its most prominent leaders; he had been responsible for the military organization of the Fascist forces and had taken part in the March on Rome. By reputation he was held to be opposed to individual violence and he possessed considerable prestige among the ex-servicemen. Mussolini regarded him as the most likely man to win over the Sardinian ex-combatants, as well as to pacify public opinion in the island after a period of such unbridled violence. The general rapidly visited the whole island and realized forthwith that in order to gain public support it was essential to make a change in tactics. He began by declaring openly that he entirely disapproved of the crimes committed and that he would be inflexible in condemning all future violation of the law. He issued a proclamation to all ex-servicemen declaring himself their protector and inviting them to enter the Fascist ranks. This attitude made a great impression. The general was undoubtedly the Government’s representative, and yet he was denouncing those very acts of violence which had been committed in its name and under its protection. The Fascists were indignant, but their opponents began to hope that the law really was going to be enforced again. Yet all the while the general was talking the language of peace, the local Fascists were carrying on acts of war. It soon became clear that he wished every one to understand that he alone was the arbiter of war and peace. To fight against existing Fascism it was necessary to create a new Fascism, and he could not suppress the former until he was certain of the latter. This the general repeated in public over and over again. The general’s appeal, however, met with no success. Yet he refused to be discouraged; he made advances to all the political leaders and expressed a wish to talk things over with me. I regarded such a meeting as absolutely futile. I represented a democratic, autonomist and republican movement; what could I gain from him or he from me? But my friends insisted and the meeting took place. The interview was a long one, but from the first we found ourselves in complete disagreement. The general declared himself ready to make every possible concession, but demanded in return that my friends and I should join up with Fascism. I pointed out to him the political absurdity of such an alliance and demanded that the Government itself should respect the law and make others respect it. He could not bring himself to understand why we should persist in remaining in opposition when we had the chance of becoming masters of the situation. I did my utmost to make my arguments clear, but the more definite I was, the more amazed he seemed to become. He started from the theory that, having fought in the war, I ought as a matter of course to be a Fascist. No other considerations had the s­lightest importance in his eyes.

70  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist ‘I am not a politician,’ the general said in conclusion. ‘Consequently I understand nothing of your theoretic position. I am a soldier. Where there is fighting, I am on the spot. And as Fascism is a fighting force, I offer it my life. That is the essential thing; nothing else matters.’ The conversation between us led to nothing. But the general was not to be daunted. He succeeded in winning over two or three leading anti-Fascists, and inaugurated a campaign of public meetings. ‘I appeal to all my opponents,’ he would say, ‘and especially to all ex-servicemen. You are anti-Fascist chiefly because the Fascists of your town are a bad lot. Very well. I’ll put them all in jail.’ (Applause.) ‘The deputy, Signor Lussu, is an idealist, but politics are a question of common sense. He’d like to continue a conflict based on hatred and bloodshed.’ (Naturally, I wanted nothing of the kind.) ‘But I am your father, not your enemy. I am your general,’ he would add, turning to the ex-combatants, ‘not your Prefect. You say that political liberty is in danger. Well, join the Fascist ranks yourselves and defend it. You shall be masters of your own fate. I will hand the Fascists over to you and you shall do as you like with them. It is you yourselves who should be the true Fascists.’ Such an approach made an impression and many opponents began to waver. ‘You are democrats?’ the general would ask. ‘And do you suppose I am not a democrat? You are autonomists and republicans? Well, go on being so, no one is going to prevent you. Fascism is like a mosaic in which the variety of the colours and the diversity of the details add to the greater splendour of the whole.’ The general was certainly a psychologist. It is difficult to resist violence, but still more difficult to resist flattery, and many who had stood up to the former gave way before the latter. There was a young doctor who used to repeat, ‘In difficult times one remains faithful to liberty; when it is threatened one defends it; when it is lost one dies.’ Summoned before the Prefect, he hesitated for half an hour and then joined the Fascio. Others gave way to the temptation of being able to avenge themselves for past insults. At Pirri, a village near Cagliari, one of the chief leaders of the opposition had been beaten by the Fascists and compelled to drink castor oil. He presented himself to General Gandolfo, joined the Fascists and that very day caused the leader of the squad responsible for the assault on him to be beaten in the public square. At Villamar, in the Marmilla district, a certain agriculturist named Melis, the leader of the local opposition to Fascism, had been put in prison three times by the Fascists of his commune. Later he had been beaten and put in irons, and then forced to drink castor oil twice in one day. Not content with this, the Fascists forbade him to leave his house even to work on his own land: he disobeyed the order, and was fired on and wounded, only escaping with his life by a miracle. The general had a long conversation with him and in the end accepted him as head of the Fascists in his district. Melis rushed home like a madman, dissolved the existing Fascio, organized a fresh one, and for a whole week did nothing but administer beatings and castor oil to his former persecutors. Similar incidents occurred in other districts. The police carried out the orders of the Government and unhesitatingly supported the official leaders. Thus it came about that they shared with equal fervour in the persecution of those whom, until then, they had supported. Discipline does not allow of freedom of opinion, otherwise it would cease to be discipline.

Chapter XVII  71 Many former heroes of Fascist punitive expeditions, now fallen into disgrace, were utterly terrorized and submitted meekly to every insult. They learnt, to their cost, what the protection of the State may mean in political strife. And, little by little, as their ill-treatment continued, their opinions also became modified, together with their fortunes. Those who had demanded a strong State now dreamt of a State according every individual the greatest possible freedom. Those who had clamoured for a policy of war now were pacifists to a man; while all who had scoffed at the ‘immortal principles’ now professed to be democrats. Thus, within a few days, they became bitter anti-Fascists, and from many of them I received telegrams in praise of my attitude and in glorification of liberty. Do ideas precede or follow events? The problem is not easy to solve. So General Gandolfo triumphed. The reader may remember my political friend in Rome who announced his determination to open a vein and die for liberty. He was among the first to go over to the Fascists and was immediately rewarded with an important post. And that other friend of mine, a lawyer, who had surrounded his house with barbed-wire entanglements and had sworn to defend himself to the last cartridge, even if artillery were used against him? He was among the most recalcitrant. But after a long argument the Prefect said to him, ‘Make up your mind. Either prison or Fascism.’ He begged for five minutes in which to decide and then chose Fascism. The Prefect conferred a specially high rank upon him. Not long afterwards he came to my house and I refused to receive him, but he walked in all the same. ‘Was it worth while,’ I asked him, ‘to spend so much on cartridges? And what have you done with the barbed wire?’ He did not reply, but taking from his pocket an old edition of a sixteenth-century book, made me read the title: ‘The ultimate profession of faith of Simon Sinai, of Lucca, first R­oman Catholic, then Calvinist, then Lutheran, then again Catholic, but always an A­theist.’ My old friend and war comrade, in whose house at Senorbì I was besieged, also inscribed his name as a member of the Fascio, and his aviator brother with him. Even the youngest brother, the student, ended up as a Fascist, and General Gandolfo looked upon their submission as one of his greatest achievements. The reader may also remember the friends who anxiously awaited me at a station on Christmas Eve, on my way to Cagliari? Among them were two men especially distinguished by their courage. They were uncompromising Republicans. Yet both went over to Fascism and were even the organizers of that new and ‘reformed’ brand of Fascism that was to replace the early ‘squads’. They had been going through difficult times, and in coming to terms with Fascism they believed they could improve not only their own fortunes but that of the island. So they became two of the General’s chief supporters, convinced that in some subtle way they could change the spirit of Fascism; but in the end they were absorbed by it. In 1924 they were elected to the Chamber and joined the more extreme Fascist movement led by Farinacci. And they gave me a great deal of trouble. Later they quarrelled, each declaring himself more Fascist than the other. The ‘new’ Fascists burnt the newspaper belonging to their predecessors and took possession of its offices. Thanks to this internecine strife their opponents were temporarily forgotten, and for a short time I was left in peace. I broke off relations with all my former friends who had turned Fascist, but, through intermediaries, they gave me to understand that if I was still alive it was due to their ‘sacrifice’.

72  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist The situation was certainly chaotic, not only in Sardinia, but throughout Italy. The Chamber continued to discuss ordinary administrative affairs; it could not, indeed, discuss anything else. To such a phantom Parliament one might well prefer, if only for the sake of political clarity, an undisguised dictatorship. It was a State based on force, so why offer the country the illusion of constitutional government? I handed in my resignation as deputy to the Chamber, but it was not accepted. I resigned a second time, and again my request was refused; but all the same I did not intend to return to the Chamber. All the men of affairs, all persons of ‘good sense,’ all those who loved peace and order and respected the authority of the State, gathered round in support of the new Fascism. But the mass of the people continued obstinately hostile, and the Fascist demonstrations were boycotted as before. Meanwhile, General Gandolfo was evolving a plan by which he hoped to arouse great enthusiasm in the island. Sardinia has warlike traditions, and the general’s idea was to flatter its pride by raising a special legion of colonial militia for immediate active service. The Sardinian Colonial Legion was thereupon officially enrolled, and formed the first Fascist military organization trained for service in the colonies. Hence it attracted considerable a­ttention both in Italy and abroad, and in the island itself it caused no end of excitement.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE Royal Guards having been disbanded on suspicion of disloyalty to the Fascist authorities, the militia was created to take their place. The militia forms the fighting force of the Fascist Party. Instituted at the end of December 1922, it was wholly at the orders of the Duce, and being a voluntary body was very highly paid. Its backbone consisted of all the squadristi of the early punitive expeditions, and in its organization it drew inspiration from the armies of ancient Rome. Thus the regiments were termed legions, the battalions cohorts, the companies centuries and maniples, while their respective officers became consuls, seniors, centurions and decurions. Even the common soldiers were known by the Roman names of principes and triarii. The imperial eagle, with outspread wings, became their banner. The colonial militia is a special branch of the Fascist militia, and it was a legion of this kind that General Gandolfo determined to raise in Sardinia. He began by issuing an inspiring proclamation, but recruiting proceeded very slowly; in the first month only thirty volunteers came forward, which was nothing to boast of. In a second proclamation the general increased the pay to sixteen lire per head, with food and uniform free. Immediately the volunteers far exceeded the numbers required, and some thousands had to be rejected. The Fascist Press referred triumphantly to the rapid d­evelopment of Fascism in the island. The new force was named the First Legion; it was, in fact, the first to be enrolled in Italy. Having been rapidly equipped and armed it was called upon to take the oath of allegiance in solemn fashion. The whole military garrison of Cagliari was present at the ceremony and rendered military honours. The legionaries took the oath by unsheathing their daggers and raising them three times in the air, as the ancient Romans were apparently supposed to have done. When the ceremony was over, the cohorts marched through the streets of the city. Being in Cagliari at the time, I watched them pass beneath my windows, and was able to recognize a number of the men. Many of them were ex-soldiers, and one of the centurions had been a corporal in my battalion during the war. Another was my barber. The greater number of the officers too had held commissions. The consul who was in command of the Legion was a colonel whom I knew well, for he had been my captain when I was a second lieutenant during the early part of the war. Having retired on half-pay on reaching the age limit, he had never taken part in active politics. He was a good fellow who had always professed liberal ideas, and it surprised many people that he should have become both a Fascist and a consul. ‘I am a Fascist in the colonies, not in Italy,’ he explained. ‘The Arabs know nothing of politics.’ Having rapidly done their first period of military training, the Legion received orders to embark for Libya. The consul asked for a delay in order that the men might complete their training, but his request was refused, and the Legion embarked from the port of Cagliari.

74  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist The day of its departure was a general holiday. Representatives of all the Fascist sections in the island had been summoned to the city, and the quayside was thronged with the womenfolk of the legionaries, many of them in tears. Bugle-calls alternated with the roll of drums. General Gandolfo kissed the imperial eagle and made a speech in which he recalled Jugurtha and the ruins of Carthage. ‘Who does Africa belong to?’ shouted the consul, from on deck. ‘To us!’ answered the Legion with uplifted daggers. ‘To us!’ repeated the Fascists crowded upon the quays. After the departure of the Legion a colonial propaganda campaign was launched at Cagliari. Immense maps showing Africa as it had been at the time of the Roman Empire were put up in theatres, cafés and offices; the whole coast-line from the Nile to the Pillars of Hercules appeared once more teeming with Latin life, and the great cities of Alexandria, Cyrene and Leptis Magna were shown surrounded by their walls. On the site of Carthage a fig appeared, recalling the words of Cato the Elder. In addition a series of lectures were organized, with most interesting lantern-slides. The greatest excitement prevailed and G­eneral Gandolfo was tireless in his activities. For over two months there was no news of the Legion. Then mysterious rumours began to spread through the island. At first it seemed that they could only be malicious inventions, but before long reliable information was received. There was no doubt about it: the Legion had mutinied in face of the enemy. General Gandolfo promptly fell ill and was no more to be seen in public. What had happened was this: certain Arab tribes had made an incursion in the neighbourhood, as far as I remember, of the oasis of Kufra, and the governor of the colony had wished to entrust the honour of reprisals to the Fascist Legion. He had, in fact, received orders from Rome that the First Legion should see active service as soon as possible, so that news of its successes might enthuse the youth of Italy and redound to the credit of Sardinian Fascism. After the civil war genuine war laurels must now be won. The consul had indeed raised objections on the score of the scanty military training of his Legion, but the honour to which it was called was considerable and he had not dared to stress the point. The Legion therefore was ordered to advance on the enemy. It was the first time that Fascists had been called upon to attack an armed adversary in the field and great were the expectations of their prowess. The ensuing surprise was even greater. The whole Legion stood firm and refused to move. To the officers who ordered them forward the legionaries replied by demanding their arrears of pay. They asserted that their conditions of enlistment had not been observed and that they were entitled to sixteen lire a day instead of seven. It was a fact that they were only receiving seven and that their food consisted of ordinary field rations. The consul did all in his power to avert the calamity, but his efforts were in vain. The legionaries obstinately demanded their pay. Then the consul ordered the arrest of their spokesmen. The result was pandemonium. The legionaries, their arms in their hands, r­esisted the execution of the order, and the situation became critical. The consul tried to gain time, but in the end he was compelled to inform headquarters, and regular troops—infantry, cavalry, and artillery—were hastily sent up. The mutineers found themselves surrounded and field-guns trained on them. Only then did they change their minds and decide to go forward. The regulars followed a short distance behind. But

Chapter XVIII  75 though the legionaries had been induced to advance their demeanour inspired greater fear on our side than amongst the Arabs. In such circumstances spectacular successes were not to be hoped for. The higher command realized the need for abandoning the enterprise, and the Legion was ordered back to camp. A few days later it was disbanded, and its different units distributed among the regiments of the regular army; which meant that the Legion and its cohorts no longer existed, and only scattered centuries remained. Its esprit de corps thus received a mortal wound. But resistance was impossible, and the legionaries resigned themselves to lower pay and ordinary rations. Later on some of the centuries were to come in for stiff fighting, but the Legion, as such, had no longer any organic unity and could not claim to represent Fascism. Politically speaking, it represented nothing at all. Moreover, all the men petitioned to be sent home, on the plea that the conditions of their enlistment had not been observed, so the Government ultimately ordered the Legion to be reconstituted and sent back to Sardinia. The news of its coming quickly spread in the island. All Sardinia wanted to see the return of the Legion. Never, since the war, had such curiosity been aroused, except when the Red Indian chief, ‘White Stag’ had been expected in Cagliari. This was supposed to be one of the most famous descendants of the chiefs who for a long period had ruled the country round the great lakes on the frontiers of Canada and the United States. He had arrived in Italy in Red Indian costume, complete with pipe and feathers. He had exhibited marked sympathy for Fascism and had even declared that on his return to his native land he would organize his tribe on Fascist lines and clothe the most bellicose of his Redskins in black shirts as a protest against the drab democracy of the descendants of Washington. All Fascism, even the Duce himself, had responded to his enthusiasm and had heaped honours upon him. At Florence he had been nominated an honorary consul, and, clad in a black shirt, had taken part in many Fascist ceremonies. Several times, on appearing in a theatre, he had been the object of great ovations, while not a few ladies of the Tuscan aristocracy had been attracted by this strikingly handsome Indian. It was arranged that ‘White Stag’ should also go to Sardinia, where he was awaited with so much excitement that, a whole month beforehand, window-seats along the route he was to follow had been sold like boxes at the theatre. But unhappily the ‘Stag’ had become incautious. The police began to take an interest in him, with the result that they arrested him one day as he was passing under a triumphal arch. They had ascertained that he was an international adventurer of Dutch origin who was wanted by the police of several European countries. So his intended visit to Sardinia did not take place. The city awaited the arrival of the Legion with impatience, and the whole of Cagliari collected on the quay-side to see the spectacle. The disembarkation took place amidst a good deal of disorder, and several of the men fell into the water. The legionaries could not be said to present a particularly martial appearance. They had come home in the same uniforms, now torn and dirty, in which they had left for Africa, and many of them carried small monkeys in their arms or on their shoulders, while others had great curved scimitars at their belts. The disembarkation proved a lengthy business, and the legionaries began to lose patience. There was a general breaking-away from the ranks. Many of the men sprawled about the quay, and others invaded the neighbouring cafés, peremptorily ordering drinks and shouting: ‘General Gandolfo will pay!’ The bugles repeatedly sounded the fall-in, but

76  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist the legionaries paid no heed; they hung about singing Arab melodies and war-songs, accompanying themselves on a ‘tam-tam’. It was only after several hours that the officers and N.C.O.s succeeded in re-forming the ranks, but at last it became possible to begin the march past, with the imperial eagle at the head of the procession and the baggage in the rear. The garrison command had decided to contribute some music and a regimental band arrived on the scene. It was hoped that external decorum would thus conceal the internal shortcomings of the Legion from the city: dirty linen should not be washed in public. But the Legion detested military music, and as soon as the band began to play a familiar march, the ‘Return of Caesar’, the men started shouting and prevented it from continuing. ‘We want our pay! Give us our arrears!’ they yelled in chorus. The populace crowded round them and they had no hesitation in explaining to all and sundry how they had been denied their promised pay and altogether cheated and betrayed. In the main street the legionaries, tired of marching in order, again became impatient of discipline, and broke their ranks. The street urchins, who had collected in large numbers, began to tease and excite the monkeys, and the latter soon became the chief cause of trouble. Some of them got away in the scrimmage and leaped on to the shoulders and heads of the onlookers, Women screamed, waving their arms and umbrellas, and the monkeys fled in all directions, pursued by dogs. Wild with terror, they sprang on to lamp-posts, trees, and balconies, and were thus soon the chief attraction of this extraordinary spectacle. The crowd rushed hither and thither, shouting, while the legionaries pursued and tried to recapture the fugitives, which was no easy task, as the monkeys had become panicstricken. Meanwhile, the march had long since come to a standstill. Finally, the monkeys were secured, and returned with their owners to the ranks. But the officers had considerable difficulty in getting the Legion into barracks. Never had the town witnessed so remarkable a military display. It was an unforgettable event, especially to the children, who had enjoyed every minute of it. Long afterwards their mothers used to promise them that if they were good they should be taken to see the Fascist Legion. So the militia began to win popularity in Sardinia. The following day the Legion was disbanded and the flag with the imperial eagle was hidden away in a corner of the Prefecture. The more insubordinate of the legionaries were brought before the military tribunal and the remainder were mostly enrolled for home service in the ordinary militia, on their promising good behaviour. And it was easy for them to keep their oath, for the enemies they were likely to meet in the course of their duties—in other words, the opponents of the regime—could dispose neither of deserts, nor oases, nor arms, and to combat them lighter discipline and fewer sacrifices were demanded.

CHAPTER XIX

BY the second half of 1923 Fascism was in undisputed possession of power, but it still demanded the expression of popular consent. ‘Consent,’ explains the philosopher Gentile, in his interpretation of the ‘Concrete Universal’, ‘is real, whether it is spontaneous or whether it is enforced.’ Therefore the Blackshirts, bludgeon in hand, went in pursuit of consent, while the forces of the State prepared the way for them. The Opposition could only protest by means of the Press. The Fascist newspapers remained unsold, for no one wanted to read them. Anti-Fascists were expelled both from public and private offices; the police kept an eye on them and pointed them out to the squadristi as enemies of the regime, while the squadristi followed suit and denounced them to the police. The service was reciprocal and the State paid. Even so, the regular police, the Fascist militia, and the squadristi proved insufficient, and another force of special police, still more strictly trained, was immediately created. Yet Fascism still did not feel itself secure. The Catholic deputies had resigned from the Government in April and the opposition in the Chamber had increased rather than diminished. In support of Mussolini there remained only the Fascists and the ‘Orthodox Liberals,’ who, in Italy, are called Liberals because they were Liberals in the time of Cavour, but who in all but name are simply Conservatives. To these Italian Liberals the concept of liberty apparently did not admit of limitations. In effect, liberty exists or does not exist. If it exists, it does not cease to be liberty because it submits itself to absolutism. Indeed tyranny itself, dialectically interpreted, is no more nor no less than a stimulus to liberty. Signor Orano, philosopher, parliamentary deputy, and anti-Fascist until the ‘March on Rome’, was responsible for giving a philosophic form to this brilliant conception. The Opposition Press maintained that Fascism represented only a small minority of the people, and the Fascists that the minority lay with the Opposition. It was for the sovereign people to decide who was in the right. But the people have to be wisely guided. They may be always in the right, but they are frequently found to have expressed themselves badly, and it becomes imperative to control their means of expression. Mussolini therefore demanded a reform of the electoral law. The new law must be drawn up in such a way that the Fascist Party would dispose of the majority of the seats. The existing Chamber declared itself hostile, unmitigatedly hostile, to this proposal. It had suffered humiliations enough, and would give way no further. If necessary it would fight to the last drop of its blood. Its resolution was of iron; it could be broken but not bent The Opposition deputies consulted together, one by one. They made a careful forecast of the voting, and the majority seemed assured, though the voting would be close. This time they were all resolved to stand t­ogether; it was a question of life and death. I had not put my foot inside the Chamber since my resignation had been rejected, but constitutionally speaking, I was still a deputy. A delegation came to me and explained that the loss of a single vote might wrest victory from the hands of the Opposition. Could I be guilty of such desertion? My colleagues all implored me to take my share in the struggle

78  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist and I easily let myself be persuaded. Indeed, there was nothing left for us to do but to use our votes; the Chamber had become the only possible battle-ground. The excitement was intense. Mussolini let it be known officially that if the Bill were rejected he would dissolve the Chamber all the same and carry out a second coup d’état. The news was disturbing, but after the first bad impression it seemed only to strengthen the resolution of the Opposition. Giolitti sent to warn his friends that patriotic wisdom demanded prudence. ‘But it is better to die like lions than to live like sheep,’ declared the democratic parties, in a fervour of self-sacrifice. ‘Very well,’ said the Fascists, ‘we shall make a second march on Rome.’ The Opposition was not to be intimidated. ‘Another march on Rome? If necessary we will burn Rome. Rome can be evacuated. What did Napoleon find at Moscow? A heap of ashes.’ There was no lack of suggestions for counter-measures. The day before the Bill was to be introduced Rome was crowded with Blackshirts. Armed and menacing, they drove rapidly about the city in lorries, shouting: ‘Death to the traitors! Death! Death!’ Many deputies were openly insulted in the streets. The situation was alarming, and doubts began to arise. Perhaps, after all, discretion was the better part of valour; perhaps Giolitti was right. Why be intransigent? Parliamentary deputies must think of the country and not of themselves. And who could watch over the interests of the country if the d­eputies, its representatives, allowed themselves to be massacred? The fateful hour approached. All the deputies were present in the Chamber. In the public seats the Blackshirts ostentatiously fingered their revolvers, while the more ribald, u­nsheathing their daggers, calmly used them to trim their nails. ‘What vulgarity,’ whispered the deputy sitting on my right. ‘Do you think they will shoot?’ asked the one on my left, almost inaudibly. ‘Are you armed?’ I asked him. ‘Are you mad?’ he countered. But it is needless to detain the reader with these alarming preliminaries. Let us come to the result of the voting. Out of four hundred and fifty votes cast, three hundred and three were in favour of the Bill and a hundred and forty against. There were seven abstentions. The democratic parties, including the Catholics, had nearly all voted in the majority. The Fascists received this result with demonstrations of joy lasting a full half-hour, and Mussolini left the Chamber laughing with delight. I happened to be the first deputy to leave the building, and as I came out on to the Piazza Montecitorio I found the square and its vicinity packed with people, waiting, anxiously, for the result of the division. When I appeared at the top of the steps every one realized that the voting was over, and all gazed questioningly at me, in silence. I said: ‘The Bill has been passed by a large majority.’ It is not surprising that in Eastern realms the ministers whose duty it is to convey news of a military defeat to their sovereign should prefer to commit suicide, thus anticipating certain death and escaping both the royal wrath and the tortures that may ensue. I was certainly most unwise to leave the palace by the Montecitorio entrance, and in announcing the result of the division without any comment I committed a still greater act of indiscretion.

Chapter XIX  79 Instead of simply saying, ‘The Bill has been passed,’ I should have prudently explained: ‘Citizens, I voted against it; having said which, I beg to inform you that the Bill has been passed.’ And thereupon I should have discreetly retired into the building again. On the contrary, having made my brief and crude announcement, I proceeded to descend the steps into the piazza. A roar of indignation rose from the crowd, followed by a torrent of insults. ‘Cowards! Traitors! You have sold your country! Resign! Resign! Death to the d­eputies!’ And since I was the sole representative of Parliament on the piazza, the whole fury of the crowd was concentrated upon me. I was surrounded, attacked, and struck. I had not even the sense to explain who I was and to say that I had voted against the Bill. I was scarcely given a chance to do so, but in any case my mind was mainly occupied by the oddness of the situation in which I found myself. I could have foretold everything that was to happen that day except the possibility of an attack on me by those who shared my political opinions. Having already lost my hat and my tie, I was still holding desperately on to my coat, reflecting the while how fortunate the President of the Chamber had been. Why had he not come out first? In truth his attitude during the sitting was deserving of some special recognition. In all probability I should have been torn in pieces had not a detachment of grenadiers appeared on the scene. Then the police came up and order was restored. The Chamber had still a few months of life before it, but early in 1924 it was dissolved, and the general election took place. With the reform of the electoral law, Fascism was certain of a majority in the Chamber. Moreover, it may be admitted that there have been very few examples in Italy of political parties in power previous to the general election being defeated at the polls. By a constitutional custom, universally recognized, the prefects, who themselves are appointed by the Government, have always acted as the principal electoral agents. Giolitti, who knew well how to make use of such an advantage, enjoyed the r­eputation of being quite undefeatable in this respect. The opponents of the regime were divided into two camps, some in favour of abstaining altogether from the election and others of taking part in it. There were excellent arguments for either policy, but to most people abstention appeared to be based simply on lack of courage, and those in favour of fighting the election easily carried the day. Polling day was fixed for April 6th. I accepted the decision of the majority and again offered myself as a candidate in Sardinia. Very few Opposition candidates were allowed to address public meetings, and many were even banned from their constituencies under threat of death. Others had to abstain from showing themselves in public for fear of compromising the electors. The Fascists threatened reprisals, and organized a special system of control to enable them to recognize the voting papers of suspected individuals. Once more the country was in the grip of terrorism. A Socialist candidate named Piccinini was killed for having disobeyed the order to keep away from his constituency. In Sardinia similar conditions prevailed. The rival factions within the Fascist Party made peace with one another, and a united front was restored among them. Several of my old friends who had gone over to Fascism were among the Government candidates. Every Fascio had received orders to prevent my addressing meetings at all costs, but there was strong local feeling in favour of my party and I was enabled to do so without meeting with

80  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist any violence. It was only at Masullas, a rural commune in the centre of the island, that I was prevented from speaking at all. Before my arrival the inhabitants had all been ordered to shut themselves up in their houses, and when I arrived I was met by armed Fascists, who barred the way into the village. The royal commissary addressed me in the following terms: ‘Signor Lussu, I stand for liberty, and whoever does not love liberty does not deserve to live. But we must distinguish between liberty and liberty. Every one is free to serve his country, but no one is free to betray it. When Philip of Macedon…’ I must explain that the commissary was an elementary school teacher who had enjoyed a classical education. ‘…When Philip of Macedon made an attack on the liberties of Greece, Demosthenes’ I interrupted to beg him to confine himself to episodes of our national history. The proceedings were somewhat complicated. The commissary had made careful preparations. He spoke standing on a table, and to prevent him from falling two Fascists held on to his legs. Moreover, his speech was all written out, and so, when I requested him to confine himself to our national history, he stopped his speech and looking at me with fury exclaimed, ‘Very well,’ Then pointing at me he gave the order to his men: ‘In the name of the law, arrest him!’ However, I was able to escape from a situation for which I had only myself to thank by the help of a local Fascist who had been a non-commissioned officer in my regiment during the war. He took my part and enabled me to leave without further trouble. A group of Fascists at Cagliari succeeded in persuading some fanatic that my death was a national necessity. He consequently stationed himself in front of my house armed with an enormous hunting-knife. But he showed so much agitation that he soon attracted attention and two young men disarmed him and escorted him to the neighbouring militia barracks. The commandant hastened to set him at liberty, and instead detained his two accusers, who were prosecuted on a charge of making false accusations. I, personally, suffered no further interference, but many of my friends were obliged to act with the greatest circumspection in order to be at liberty on election day. The candidate for the town of Sassari, a lawyer named Berlinguer, was attacked at a public meeting by the Fascists, but, though they used their daggers, he was defended by friends and only received slight injuries. The Government lists gained a majority throughout Italy with over four million votes in their favour; the Opposition received about three million. I was re-elected. The new Chamber met in May, and the Socialist deputy, Giacomo Matteotti, immediately made a courageous speech, protesting against the violent and illegal measures employed during the electoral campaign and asserting that the elections were thereby rendered invalid. The Fascist deputies were furious, and for a moment it looked as though the sitting might end in a tragic way. Matteotti finished his speech amid a storm of abuse, and as he resumed his seat he said jokingly to his friends: ‘I have made my speech. You can now prepare my funeral o­ration.’ The Fascist newspapers, commenting on the day’s proceedings, asserted that the tolerance shown by the Fascist deputies towards Matteotti had been unpardonable. That same evening Mussolini said to a group of his supporters, who were specialists in the art of

Chapter XIX  81 taking reprisals: ‘If you had not been cowards, no one would have dared to deliver such a speech.’ When King Henry II of England received the news that Thomas a Becket had issued the Bull of Excommunication against his favourites, he vented his rage upon his courtiers. ‘Is there none among you that eat at my table,’ he cried, ‘who will rid me of this turbulent priest?’ Immediately, so history relates, four knights set off for Canterbury and murdered the archbishop while he was officiating in the Cathedral. In the same way five trusted followers of Mussolini started out from the very heart of Rome to make an end of Matteotti Macchiavelli writes in his Prince: ‘Whoever, therefore, deems it necessary to make himself secure in his new principality against enemies, to win for himself friends, to conquer by force or fraud, to make himself loved and feared by the people, and obeyed and revered by his soldiers, to crush those who might injure him, and to replace the old order by new institutions, cannot find a more striking example than in the actions of this man.’ As is well known, he was referring to Caesar Borgia. A short time previously Mussolini had selected the Prince as the theme for his honorary degree at the University of Bologna.

CHAPTER XX

ON June 10th Matteotti was seized in the street on his way to the Chamber, carried off by car into the Roman Campagna, and murdered. I was in Rome at the time, and, like my colleagues, I learned the news quite suddenly. But to tell the truth I was not greatly surprised. It seemed natural enough to me that what had frequently happened in all parts of Italy should also happen in Rome. It was the turn of Parliament now, that was all. But the effect of this incident throughout the country was enormous. The Fascist squad that had carried out the crime had been under the command of a certain Amerigo Dumini. I knew him well by reputation. Six months previously he had fought a duel with a Socialist journalist, Giannini by name, whom he had caused to be assaulted in a Roman theatre. Giannini was a skilled fencer, and Dumini, during the encounter, was seized with panic and ran away. Nevertheless, in Fascist circles he had a great reputation for daring, and undoubtedly held the place of honour among political assassins. He was fond of introducing himself with the words: ‘Dumini, nine homicides.’ His most celebrated exploit had been performed in public at Carrara, where he slapped a girl in the face for wearing a red carnation, regarded as a badge of Socialism; when her mother and brother, who were with her, remonstrated, he replied by shooting them both on the spot. Now he was living in Rome and working in the Prime Minister’s press bureau. Although scarcely able to read and write, he was looked upon as a useful journalist, and enjoyed a high salary. His four companions were less notorious, but were all well known in Fascist circles. For the first few days the crime remained wrapt in mystery and the general public knew nothing of the fate of the vanished deputy. On June 12th Mussolini thought it well to make some reference to the event in the Chamber. Many persons have asserted that the Duce appeared greatly embarrassed on that occasion. I clearly remember all the details of the sitting and the expression with which the head of the Government addressed the Chamber. He was not the least embarrassed. While he uttered the words: ‘I trust that Signor Matteotti may soon resume his seat in Parliament,’ he fixed his eyes on the benches to the left and his look said clearly: ‘He is the first; take warning! He will not be the last!’ And it was because of this implied threat that the Republican deputy, Eugenio Chiesa, suddenly sprang to his feet and pointing at Mussolini shouted: ‘The Government is implicated!’ At that date Mussolini felt quite sure of himself. The Fascist deputies were in high good humour, and the squadristi jubilant. However, the situation soon changed for the worse, as the names of the high Fascist officials who were concerned in the crime began to leak out: Cesare Rossi, head of the Prime Minister’s press bureau; Marinelli, administrative secretary-general to the Fascist Party; Filippelli, editor of the Corriere degli Italiani; and finally General De Bono, chief of the police, who had at once intervened and consulted with Dumini as to the best means of covering up all traces of the crime. Thus the head of the Government was himself directly compromised.

Chapter XX  83 Never before had the nation been so profoundly shocked. The Opposition deputies left the Chamber declaring that they would not put foot inside it until all those responsible for the crime had been brought to justice. It was in this way that the parliamentary secession known by the name of the ‘Aventine’1 came about. Among the public, most of those hostile to Fascism were unhesitatingly of the opinion that the Duce was the direct instigator of the crime; others, and many Fascists with them, thought it possible that the murder was due to some lamentable private initiative. I held the former view. But all were agreed that in either case the head of the Government was politically responsible. The majority of the Fascists were disconcerted by the event and did not know what to think, but not a few of them continued to assert unhesitatingly that all was for the best, and that this was the right method from which Fascism should never have departed. Thus Rome passed through days of acute agitation. Every one demanded the resignation of the Government, Nothing else was talked of. The leaders of the Opposition were cheered in the streets, while Fascists were met with booing and hisses. Many of them removed their party badges and declared that they would not wear them again until Mussolini had been proved innocent. Others took them off in order to escape insult and possible danger to themselves. No one was to be seen in public in a black shirt. Many deputies who had always worn Fascist uniform in the Chamber suddenly made their appearance in starched collars and ordinary clothes. In the lobbies the Fascist deputies did their utmost to make overtures to their opponents and to show their abhorrence of violence and despotism, One deputy, Terzaghi, a veteran Fascist, even went about demanding the head of the Duce. Another, Count Cao di S.Marco, who had been an intimate friend of mine before he became a Fascist, came to see me in order to say that whatever might happen in Rome or in the peninsula we must come to an understanding as to a pacific solution of the crisis in Sardinia. He was obviously worried as to possible reprisals at his own expense. ‘Aren’t you ashamed,’ I said to him, ‘to come to me at such a moment?’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘why should I be ashamed?’ A former friend of mine, a Roman lawyer, both a Fascist and a squadrista, whom I had not seen for over two years, came to me in desperation, imploring me to put him up for a few days. He was afraid that the anti-Fascists of his neighbourhood would attack him in his house. ‘Why do you apply to me?’ I asked, ‘and not to friends in your own party?’ ‘Friends in my own party!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’re all in the same boat. I can’t find one of them. Some have left Rome altogether and many of them have changed their quarters. It is a terrible moment.’ ‘Ah!’ I said to him, ‘you used to be a great supporter of violent measures. Why don’t you practise violence now? It’s the right moment.’ ‘Mussolini has betrayed us,’ he replied. ‘Or perhaps it’s you who have betrayed Mussolini by deserting him like this.’ ‘Mussolini has betrayed us,’ he repeated. ‘He ought to have known that he would turn the whole country against us by suppressing Matteotti while the Ghamber was in session.   In reference to an incident in Roman history, when the plebs left the city and retired to the Aventine, one of the seven hills of Rome. 1

84  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist He can always have an aeroplane in readiness to take him where he likes, but we haven’t all an air-force at our disposal.’ ‘Then you too believe that it was Mussolini who had Matteotti murdered?’ ‘And who else should have? You don’t suppose it was I, do you?’ ‘It was a glorious victory,’ I said. ‘The Empire may well be proud of it. Do you still believe in the Empire?’ ‘The Empire, the Empire,’ he repeated, scowling. ‘We shall all lose our skins for it and we shan’t even have the satisfaction of a handsome funeral.’ During these days Mussolini remained shut up in the Viminal Palace, guarded by battalions of infantry. The militia was not in a condition to afford him adequate protection, for its general mobilization, ordered as a matter of urgency, had proved a miserable failure. The young militia-men were not allowed to leave home by their families, for fear they should be attacked in the streets, and even the more courageous among them were demoralized by the insults hurled at them by the people. Fascism appeared to be in extremis. If five hundred anti-Fascists had made an attack on the Government offices the whole city would have been with them, and Mussolini would have lost power as rapidly as he had gained it. The situation in other cities was not dissimilar. The newspapers, even the more moderate among them, began to use revolutionary language. In many provinces the premises of the Fascist headquarters remained closed, their newspapers unsold, and the militia dispersed. But insurrection was a solution quite remote from the psychology and mentality of the anti-Fascist leaders. The Opposition had never contemplated any illegal action. The ‘Aventine’ was constitutional and based its strength on its appeal to normal parliamentary procedure and to the recognized rights of the Constitution. The old parliamentarians recalled all the precedents for resignation by ministers in Italy, in France and in England, when compromised by even minor misdeeds, and the statute became the object of much discussion both as regards the letter and the spirit. The ‘Aventine’ was convinced that it was the duty of the Duce to resign, and that even against his own will he would be compelled to do so either by the pressure of public opinion or through the intervention of the Sovereign. Unfortunately the Government of Mussolini was not a parliamentary Government and the King was already too deeply compromised with it to contemplate destroying his own handiwork. Moreover, the Fascists, for good or evil, were fully armed, while the opposition was not. The ‘Aventine’ consisted of the following political parties: Catholic Democrats, Reformist Socialists, Maximalist Socialists, Democrats, and Republicans. The Republicans alone were in favour of revolutionary action; but they formed a small minority and were anxious not to destroy the unity that the ‘Aventine’ had been able to create both in the Chamber and in the country. They had no intention of imitating the Communists, who, after having adhered to the ‘Aventine’ for two days, had withdrawn from it, remaining isolated, with no following and incapable of carrying out any policy whether legal or illegal. All the remaining parties, owing to their political traditions, were opposed to any policy of violence. Thus the ‘Aventine’, which consisted of a union of these legalitarian parties, could not, from its very nature, develop any but a strictly legal policy. Its strength lay in its unity and the popular support it enjoyed; indeed, it had on its side the immense majority of the country. If the King had grasped the historic importance of the crisis the monarchy might have been consolidated in Italy for centuries, as in England, and it is highly

Chapter XX  85 p­robable that we Republicans would have been hanged from the nearest lamp-posts, thanks to p­opular fury against us. During these days the King was paying a visit to Spain, in order to congratulate Alfonso XIII on the ability with which he too had succeeded in ridding his Parliament of politicians, entrusting his fortunes and those of the State to the spectacular rule of General de Rivera. Had the King been returning from England he would doubtless have reflected long before making up his mind. But he was coming back from the Iberian peninsula, where he had seen no one but generals, cardinals and bishops, Grandees of Spain and Knights of the Holy Sepulchre; from an atmosphere, in brief, extremely unfavourable to democratic ideas and the principles of a Liberal State. While the King was on his way home, Mussolini, attacked from every side, and anxious to divert public attention from himself, compelled Signor Finzi to resign his post as UnderSecretary for the Interior. The Duce had an interview with him and apparently made certain threats that led Finzi to believe himself in danger of death. Finzi thereupon barricaded himself into his house with a group of armed adherents, and wrote a memorandum of the events leading up to Matteotti’s disappearance, in which he denounced Mussolini as directly responsible for the murder. This memorandum was immediately sent to the O­pposition leaders. Cesare Rossi’s turn came next. He was forced to resign from his post as head of the Prime Minister’s official press bureau, and fearing that worse was to follow, wrote Mussolini that famous letter, communicated without delay to his intimate friends, in which occur the words: ‘You are now panic-stricken. But if your cynical disregard of moral values should prompt you to have me killed to prevent my talking, I warn you that it will be the end of your career and of the Fascist régime.’

He too composed a memorandum, and then took refuge in some safe spot. Lastly it was the turn of Filippelli, who left his newspaper office and fled from Rome. And Filippelli wrote yet another memorandum: a kind of death-bed confession. ‘Resignation of Finzi! Resignation of Rossi!’ The news spread through Italy; and soon afterwards: ‘Flight of Filippelli! Flight of Rossi!’ The ‘Aventine’ directed this bloodless campaign with much ability. Mussolini was forced to rid himself of the whole of his General Staff, a precious cargo, flung overboard to save himself from shipwreck. General De Bono was to follow. He too was compelled to resign his post as head of the police, and went about tearfully comparing himself with Belisarius. But public opinion was still unsatisfied and clamoured for the resignation of Mussolini himself. Even the Fascists, with Del Croix at their head, began to conspire together in the attempt to find a successor to him. The Duce lost his appetite; Farinacci let it be known that his weight was reduced by eight kilos. It was indeed a trying time for the Dictator. The return of the King was announced for the afternoon of June 16th. Half Rome collected round the railway station. The executive committee of the ‘Aventine’ was in some perplexity. Should the Opposition confer with the King or not? And supposing the King refused to receive them, what then? At the last moment it appeared more prudent merely to send Finzi’s memorandum to the King, which would surely mean that Mussolini was as good as dead and buried. But a memorandum has never yet killed anybody.

86  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist The King was back in Rome: all Italy was waiting for him to act. The duties of the Crown are by no means simple. But very soon things were amicably arranged. Mussolini resigned from the Ministry of the Interior and had himself replaced by Federzoni, who had the reputation of being in favour of legal methods and enjoyed the confidence of the King. The Dumini gang was already in prison, and so were Filippelli, Marinelli, and Rossi What more could the country ask? The Opposition was disconcerted, but the agitation still continued. On June 24th M­ussolini made a speech in the Senate: ‘From to-day onwards clarity and justice will prevail. The last remnants of an inevitable but out-of-date illegality will disappear, and the reign of justice will be re-established for ever.’ The Senate seemed satisfied, even enthusiastic. The Fascists too were appeased. Black shirts were suddenly again in evidence, together with daggers and revolvers and shouts of ‘Long live Dumini’. At the militia barracks, written in large characters in full view of the public, appeared the solemn warning: ‘Whoever attacks the Militia will be shot’ By degrees Mussolini regained the eight kilos he had lost, and even put on two more. Time is a great healer. He now felt able to speak out freely and with commendable lucidity: ‘If our adversaries are so foolish as to pass from words to deeds, our Blackshirts will trample them in the dust.’ But the ‘Aventine’ was not so foolish. The discovery of Matteotti’s body in August stirred the stagnant waters once again. The struggle was resumed with even greater violence, so far as words were concerned, and was carried on with increasing intensity up to November 4th. This date seems to lend itself specially to great conspiracies. The disabled soldiers had resolved to commemorate the Armistice that year with unusual solemnity, and had organized great popular demonstrations throughout Italy. The day closed with an explosion of anti-Fascist feeling. No one imagined that hatred of the regime was still so deep and so widespread. In the opinion of the Opposition the events of this day must compel the King to come to a decision; indeed, it was said that this was precisely what he had been waiting for. But the King appeared to be wholly unconscious of what was taking place. The memoranda of the guilty men, the last reserves in a battle now drawing to its close, were brought into play. The leaders of the Opposition had throughout attributed to them a strategic role of the highest importance, and they now had those of Filippelli and Rossi laid before the King. The King received them with complete unconcern. Weary of temporizing, Amendola caused the Rossi memorandum to be published in his paper, the Mondo, on December 29th, and all the newspapers in Italy reprinted it in its entirety. Once again the whole country was roused. So it was really true that Mussolini was personally responsible? How then could he remain in power for a single day? On all sides there came demands for the publication—as a coup de grâce—of the Filippelli memorandum. This time Mussolini defended himself by attacking. He set up a rigid censorship of the Press and ordered the general mobilization of the militia. The supreme hour had come. Three ministers resigned, declining to be regarded as accomplices. Amendola, who was in touch with the King, let it be known that Mussolini would be compelled to resign in the end, and urged calm—a really superfluous recommendation. Some thirty prominent persons announced their willingness to sacrifice themselves

Chapter XX  87 and become prime ministers. Even Del Croix, in terms of extreme modesty, presented his candidature. It was difficult to find room for thirty prime ministers simultaneously, but each one professed himself certain of office and began to seek for supporters. In less than half a day the candidates for posts in the new Government rose to over three hundred. Victory, then was in sight…. At Reggio Calabria the telegram of a Roman correspondent announced the fall of the Government. In an instant the whole city was en fête. Everywhere work was stopped and shops closed in sign of rejoicing. A great popular procession acclaimed the local leaders of the Opposition and bore them round the town in triumph. The more prominent of the Fascists disappeared, whilst others declared themselves disgusted with the regime and begged to be allowed to take part in the demonstration. Their opponents were touched: there must be no posthumous vengeance. Every one fraternized. Even the Prefect and the chief of police explained that it was in the interests of the country that they had not refused to take office under a Fascist Government. Their excuses were accepted; the past was forgotten and peace was proclaimed. At Gonnesa, in Sardinia, a Fascist newspaper announced the resignation of Mussolini. Hopes were so high that the news was accepted as true, and the whole town rose in excitement. Less fortunate than their colleagues at Reggio Calabria, the Fascist leaders had not time to escape and were roughly handled, while the rank and file shut themselves up in their houses. Their womenfolk begged for a generous act of clemency, which was at once granted. Orators harangued the crowd in improvised speeches and telegrams of c­ongratulation were composed on the spot and dispatched to the new Government. But where was the new Government? Mussolini was still in power. Day by day the anxiety of the country grew in intensity until it had arrived at white heat. On January 3rd Mussolini addressed the Chamber: ‘In the presence of this assembly and of the whole Italian nation, I declare that I alone a­ssume the complete moral, political and historical responsibility for all that has o­ccurred.’ The campaign was over and the battle lost. All the high hopes of the preceding days were utterly shattered. The ‘Aventine’, humiliated and held up to ridicule, was finished. The 3rd of January created a new order. All those Fascists who had removed their badges when there was some doubt as to whether Mussolini were responsible for the Matteotti crime, promptly began to wear them again, since the doubt had been turned into a certainty. Now, freed from the noisy clamour of democracy, justice could follow her own course. And in order clearly to indicate the character of the new era, Farinacci, the Marat of the Fascist revolution, was nominated Director-General1 of the Fascist Party. On behalf of Marinelli, Rossi, and Filippelli a special decree of amnesty was issued, and the three musketeers came out of prison without trial. De Bono was acquitted by the examining judge of the High Court before being brought to open trial. The five members of the Dumini band, removed from Rome and tried by the Court of Assizes, were also restored to their country and to active political life. A few rewards, however, seemed called for. The taciturn Marinelli, who alone had stoically resisted the temptation to indite a memorandum, was promoted on the spot to 1

  Italian segretario (secretary).

88  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist be I­nspector-General of the Fascist Party, whereupon the King granted him the muchesteemed honour of a special audience. General De Bono was created Minister for the Colonies, and was able successfully to apply among the Arabs those methods which had brought him so much trouble at home. And in order that the tragedy should have its suitable epilogue, the widow of Matteotti and her two children were constantly insulted in the streets, while Amendola, the puritan leader of the army that fought without weapons, was by approved Fascist methods reduced to silence in eternal sleep. The Italian ex-combatants, however, had not yet said their last word. They assembled in conference at Assisi, the city of Saint Francis, and disregarding all attempts at intimidation they passed, by a large majority, a motion demanding the restoration in full of all the l­iberties guaranteed by the Constitution, Signor Viola, president of the association and a parliamentary deputy, headed a delegation from the congress to the King, who received them at his country seat at San Rossore. Every one of them wore medals for military valour. Standing at attention, Signor Viola presented the resolution to the King and briefly explained the attitude of the Italian ex‑servicemen. It was a solemn moment. Signor Viola felt that he stood for the Italian people and all that they had suffered in the war. Every member of the deputation was acutely conscious of the critical importance of the occasion; only betraying their anxiety by their eyes, these emissaries of the people waited with bated breath for the answer of their King. The King, very pale, listened in silence to the speech. There was a long pause. Then, gazing abstractedly out of the window, he said in an expressionless voice: ‘My daughter shot two quails this morning.’ The delegation was dumbfounded. At last, scarcely able to speak for emotion, one of the delegates stammered: ‘I am very fond of quails—they are good eating, fried, with new peas…’ So ended the most solemn embassy that the Italian people had ever sent to their s­overeign on behalf of their liberties. Signor Viola, after describing the fate of this luckless venture to me, finished his c­onfidences with the exclamation: ‘But we shall die fighting!’ It is almost superfluous to add that he too went over to Fascism. After all, what is the use of contesting the ground against an invincible foe? Far wiser to throw away one’s arms and straightway make common cause with the enemy.

CHAPTER XXI

THE ‘Aventine’ was no longer a force to be reckoned with. It had played its last card—the bid for the King’s intervention—and lost. It was helpless. When legal and moral weapons fail and the contest is reduced simply to a question of force, nothing is left except to use force in return. But those accustomed to democratic methods cannot learn to do so from one day to the next Fascism gradually recovered the ground it had lost, and there seemed no further obstacle in its path. By becoming Minister for War, Mussolini even took over control of the army. Signor Amendola, assaulted by a band of Blackshirts, was fatally injured and before long died in a clinic in France, while the leader of the band, Signor Scorza, was rewarded by being promoted to the post of Vice-Director-General of the Fascist Party. The Catholic deputies returned to the Chamber, only to be driven out again. While the ‘Aventine’ gradually dispersed, the Duce grew omnipotent. Several attempts on his life, real or false, contributed to rendering his person ‘sacred’, and provided a pretext for the general resumption of violence throughout the country. The Socialists and Freemasons bore the brunt of this ruthless campaign. Thus two years passed in waiting for the ‘Empire’ to be proclaimed. On October 31st 1926, during a great meeting of Fascists at Bologna, a revolver was fired at the Duce. The occurrence is still wrapped in mystery, but a sixteen-year-old boy named Zamboni was said to have been guilty of the attempt, and in any case was stabbed to death on the spot by the Fascists, under the very eyes of the Duce. Italy was immediately swept by a veritable whirlwind of reprisals. Every prominent anti-Fascist was attacked in some way; hundreds of them had their houses sacked, and the offices of every newspaper hostile to the regime were invaded and broken up. For days the reign of terror lasted. I was at Cagliari on the day of the attempt. That morning I had been in court defending a young man accused of murder, and had secured his acquittal. Before returning to the mountain village where he lived he came to my house, accompanied by his family, to thank me. As they left, the head of the family, an eighty-year-old patriarch who was wearing the costume of the Sardinian mountaineers—coat of black wool, white linen trousers, and tight black gaiters—invoked, in Biblical phrases that I cannot recall without emotion, the b­lessing of heaven upon me, the saviour of his innocent son. They had scarcely left my house before one of my friends arrived, breathless, to warn me that the Fascists were sounding the call to battle. I went out with him to see what was happening. In the street another friend hurried up with the news that there had been an attempt on Mussolini’s life in Bologna, and that immediate reprisals had been ordered. ‘Your house will be attacked and your life is certainly in danger, he said; ‘leave the town and take refuge in some safe place.’ As he spoke, on all sides bugle-calls could be heard summoning the Fascists together from every quarter of the city.

90  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist I returned home and sent my servant away. Fortunately my mother was at our country house, and I had only myself to think of. As I went out again I was met by other friends who had hurried to warn me that shouts of ‘Death to Lussu!’ were already to be heard. I went to dine in a near-by restaurant, and as I ate, news of what was going on continued to reach me. The theatres, cinemas and all places of public resort had been closed. Armed gangs of Fascists were appearing on the streets, while at their headquarters a punitive expedition was being organized against me; the leaders were exhorting the rank and file with inflammatory speeches: I was the appointed victim, and in half an hour the attack was to be launched. The waiter who was serving me had fought in my battalion during the war. He had subsequently become a Fascist, but he could not forget his loyalty to his former officer. That evening he appeared much embarrassed; he could hardly bring himself to speak to me, and though he tried once or twice, I did not encourage him. Finally he said: ‘Signor Capitano, I know what orders have been given. I beg you not to return home; leave here at once. In a few days’ time everything will be normal again.’ ‘Do you think,’ I asked him, ‘that I am right or wrong in what ‘I’m doing?’ ‘You are right,’ he replied, reddening and mechanically standing at attention before me. ‘Then why should I beat a retreat?’ My question embarrassed him still more. He made no answer. As I went away I asked him why he had become a Fascist. ‘Things are so difficult,’ he said, ‘They made me many promises…. And who can live in opposition to the Fascists?’ ‘I live well enough,’ I retorted, and left him. But I had not told the truth. I could not honestly say that I lived at all well. In a moment I was home again. I occupied a first-floor flat, with five windows facing the piazza. Next me, on the same floor, lived a magistrate of the Court of Appeal. Knowing him to be in, I went to his door and rang the bell, intending to ask him to bear witness to any violence used against me. But he gave no sign of life. In the upper floors of the building there was absolute silence; the occupants had all taken refuge elsewhere. I rapidly made preparations for defence. I had a sporting rifle, two army revolvers, and a supply of ammunition. A couple of loaded clubs, captured from the Austrians, hung as trophies of war upon the walls. As I was taking stock of my weapons, two young friends of mine ran up the stairs to tell me that a large column of Fascists was marching towards my house, shouting that they would lynch me. When I told them that I did not intend to escape, they offered to stay and help me. I had to force them to leave. No sooner had the heavy door giving on to the street closed behind them than I heard my name shouted by the approaching column of Blackshirts. I half-closed the shutters and put out the light; I could thus see without being seen, and follow what was taking place in the piazza, which was brilliantly lit. In the street next my house were the premises of a printing-press belonging to the Christian-Democrat newspaper Il Corriere di Sardegna. The Fascists invaded and sacked it. The neighbouring office of a lawyer named Raffaele Angius came next: it was destroyed in a few minutes, furniture, books, and legal documents being thrown into the street and burned. When these two preliminary exploits had been successfully carried out, the column turned towards my house.

Chapter XXI  91 ‘Down with Lussu! Death to Lussu!’ The column was commanded by a lawyer, Count Cao di San Marco, a Member of Parliament and leader of the local Fascists. He had been a fellow-student of mine at the university and my comrade during the whole of the war; afterwards he had joined my political party and had even worked in my office; in fact, until the March on Rome he had been among my closest friends. Afterwards, unable to resist both threats and flattery, he became a Fascist, and I had to request him to leave my office, since my position as an adversary of Fascism made it impossible for us to work together any longer. We never spoke to one another again. All the same, I was surprised, that evening, to see him in person conducting an armed attack upon me. I recognized others among my aggressors, and I was no less astonished at the presence of a man named Fois, from Cagliari. He had been a syndicalist organizer among the maritime workers, and violently anti-Fascist: more than once he had been assaulted and arrested by the Fascists. When his organization was suppressed he found it impossible to earn a living, and I had helped him to emigrate to France and to find work there. Before leaving he had come to see me and had asked me to do what I could for his family, which consisted of a wife and three children named Libertà, Spartaco, and Libero (Liberty, Spartacus, and Free). Forced to return home owing to his failure to find employment he had recently joined the Fascio and was thereby enabled to resume the direction of his former organization, now become a Fascist one. To his former comrades he made the excuse that he had to support his children, but he let it be understood that his syndicalist-anarchist faith was still unshaken. I still wonder why he too that evening was clamouring for my life. I know that he has since changed the names of his children. Probably I should have been able to identify many old acquaintances of the same kind had I had time. But the street door had been broken in and a howling mob filled the s­taircase up to the door of my flat. I had made preparations for defence in the belief that my door would give way at once. Instead, it held. Warned by me that I was waiting inside, armed, the Fascists, after their first attempts to break it in, came to the conclusion that discretion would be the better part of valour. The column in the piazza, therefore, divided into three. One part remained in support of those who had invaded the staircase, a second prepared to scale the five balconies facing the square, and the third went to the back of the building and tried to enter it from a courtyard. I had not foreseen so much military strategy and was in something of a quandary, not knowing how to defend myself from three separate and simultaneous attacks. I had to hurry from one side of the house to the other in order to be ready for the first to break in. I confess that, in the course of my life, I have found myself in pleasanter circumstances. Howls came from the piazza as the crowd of Blackshirts encouraged those who were trying to reach the windows. I fired at the first to appear, killing the unfortunate man, who fell back into the street. The Fascists were terrified; in a moment the piazza was deserted and no one remained on my staircase. Count Cao tried several times to reorganize the column and lead it again to the attack, but without success. My house might have been bewitched. One of the Fascist leaders, Signor Nurchis, already known to the reader, behaved in a most un-Roman way. At the sound of my revolver-shot he fainted, and was left for dead on

92  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist the field of battle. He was the hero of many punitive expeditions, and had a reputation for great courage in using the bludgeon and in administering castor oil. He had, in fact, carried out many assaults on empty houses, unarmed adversaries, and women and children. But he soon recovered from his collapse of that evening and was able to account for it to his superiors on the score of ill-health. The scandal was thereupon hushed up. Half an hour later the police made their appearance, followed by a large number of carabineers. They mounted guard over my house. When it was entirely surrounded, and the piazza occupied in military fashion, the Fascists came back, at first by twos and threes, and then, having recovered their courage, en masse. I heard a blow on my door. ‘Open, Signor Lussu!’ It was the voice of the chief of police. ‘On my honour I swear that I am here to protect you.’ The rest echoed in chorus: ‘Yes, we are all here to protect you!’ I explained to the chief of police, through the door, that unfortunately I was unable to trust his word. ‘lf you want to come in, do. But I warn you that the light is out and my revolver loaded. You can come in with your hands up.’ ‘Impossible,’ expostulated the poor man, ‘a chief of police cannot enter with his hands up.’ ‘Very well, then, send a commissario.’ And I suggested the name of one of those with him whose voice I had recognized. ‘An excellent idea,’ said the chief of police. ‘Signor Commissario, you go.’ I opened the door, and the commissario entered with his hands up; I then shut it and turned on the light. Much perturbed, he explained that they had come to arrest me: they really did intend to protect me from the Fascists, in proof of which he adduced the large number of carabineers that surrounded my house, He succeeded in convincing me of his sincerity, and shortly afterwards I opened the door to the chief of police. This gentleman, somewhat embarrassed, communicated to me the order for my arrest. I opened the Penal Code and read him the part concerning ‘legitimate self-defence’ and a ‘state of emergency’. I pointed out that it was the duty of the authorities to imprison the attackers, not the attacked: those who violently invaded a private dwelling, not the citizen exercising a right sanctioned by the law. But the chief of police repeated that he had a painful duty to perform: I must be arrested. At the same time he anxiously observed that I would do well to stand away from the lighted window; some evilly disposed person might have a shot at me from the piazza, and, he hinted, possibly make a mistake between myself and him. Seeing that the Penal Code carried no weight, I appealed to constitutional law. I was a Member of Parliament, and it was laid down in the Statutes that a member was immune from arrest while Parliament was in session. All in vain. I was handcuffed, and taken to prison by a detachment of carabineers. The following day the Fascists continued their ‘reprisals’ in the city. Numberless arrests were made, and the houses of anti-Fascists sacked. My house alone remained unscathed, being protected by both carabineers and troops. This caused me some astonishment, but I understood the reason when I was reminded that my furniture and belongings were insured against damage done during civil disturbances. The insurance society had lost no time in obtaining protection for my home from the authorities.

Chapter XXI  93 The Government ordered that the funeral of the Fascist whom I had killed should be an imposing affair. All public employees, the pupils of the State schools, the Fascist militia, and members of all the provincial Fasci, representatives of the army and navy, the entire local magistrature, the Prefect and the general commanding the Sardinian Army Division, were all present. In the official speeches the dead man was compared with the martyrs of the Italian Risorgimento. The populace stayed away from the ceremony. The dead man’s family was awarded the pension given to soldiers killed in war-time. As for Count Cao di San Marco, he was shortly afterwards nominated Under-Secretary to the Ministry of Transport, in reward, if not for his success, at least for his good intentions in leading the assault on me that evening. After the Bologna attempt every political party or association and every newspaper hostile to the regime was suppressed. The Opposition deputies were declared to have forfeited their right to sit in Parliament; all the guarantees given in respect of the Constitution and the Code of Penal Procedure were annulled; the death penalty was restored and made applicable to political offences, a permanent Fascist tribunal was set up to deal with opponents of the regime, and deportation to the penal islands was instituted for political offenders. The old regime was from now on dead and buried. Fascism ruled everything; and supreme over all was the absolute power of the dictator.

CHAPTER XXII

I REMAINED in prison in Cagliari for more than a year. Prison life in Italy is far from pleasant, though I suppose not much worse than elsewhere. In my case the legal preliminaries to my trial could easily have been completed in a few days, but the authorities saw fit to delay them for months. Let me again remind the reader of that political friend of mine who decided to open a vein and die rather than yield to Fascism, and who nevertheless before long became a Fascist. He was a lawyer named Pazzaglia, and the duty fell to him of informing me that my name had been struck off the roll of barristers as an enemy of the regime. I reminded him of his intention to commit suicide and told him I thought it a pity he had changed his mind about it. He answered, without looking me in the face, that he was alive, and I was— he implied—as good as dead. This was undeniable; he was looking fat and well, whereas I was ill, having during my time in prison contracted bronchitis and pleurisy owing to the damp and bitter cold of my cell. Has the reader forgotten those two Republican friends of mine who went over to the Fascists at the time of General Gandolfo’s campaign? One of them, named Paolo Pili, had by the time I was arrested become not only head of the local Fascist organizations but a parliamentary deputy. The Director-General of the Fascist Party, Signor Turati, reprimanded him for the weakness shown by his rank and file in failing to put an end to me under such favourable circumstances. To prove his firmness of purpose, Signor Pili proceeded to write violent articles in the newspapers demanding the severest possible sentence against me, and threatening the magistrates, between the lines, with reprisals. ‘If I don’t do this,’ he explained to friends who expressed their surprise at so much fury on his part, ‘I’m done for.’ He therefore wrote that to have compunction for a mad dog like me would be a crime against Italy and against humanity. I nominated as my defending counsel a lawyer named Marcello, who was a personal friend of mine. The following day he was arrested. To avoid further trouble for him I then entrusted my defence to a young man named Calabresi, who had been doing his legal training in my chambers. At the moment, he was in Rome, and I therefore believed him safe from local ill-feeling and reprisals. But I was wrong. On his return journey to Cagliari he was warned in time that the Fascists were waiting for him at the station, and in order to avoid arrest he turned back. His house in Cagliari was sacked. It was not an easy time for lawyers. My case gave the local Bench a great deal to do. Under Italian legal procedure an inquiry into the facts of the case is made by an ‘examining judge’, assisted by the public prosecutor. When the inquiry is ended the Procurator-General for the province presents his conclusions—that is, proposes that the accused should be recognized as innocent, or sent to public trial. A commission of three judges, called the Prosecuting Section,1 examines all the 1

  Sezione d’Accusa.

Chapter XXII  95 evidence and the proposal of the Procurator-General, and then decides whether the accused is innocent or whether he is to come up for trial by jury. In the latter case, the Prosecuting Section also formulates the charge against the accused. After this, the public trial by jury takes place. The inquiry into my case lasted till April 1927—five months—and when it was concluded the Procurator-General requested the commission to proceed against me on a charge of intentional manslaughter, a crime punishable under the Italian Penal Code with from eighteen to twenty years’ imprisonment. He deposed that I had acted with brutal malice, having ‘committed murder under the stress of ambition, and on seeing my hopes of p­olitical power shattered’. The indignation of all honest people in Sardinia was intense. The father of the young man I had killed refused to appear at the trial and sent me a message to say that he grieved not only at having lost a son in a criminal enterprise, but also to see that in the name of his family a grave injustice was being committed against me. But the administration of justice in Sardinia was not as yet entirely ‘reformed’ by Fascism. In spite of heavy pressure being brought to bear on the three judges of the Prosecuting Section they acquitted me as having acted in legitimate self-defence. Before my acquittal had been registered at the Chancery, the Chief Justice of the province intervened to obtain its modification. One of the three judges refused to make any concession. The Chief Justice, therefore, availing himself of a right accorded him by the law, took the place of the recalcitrant judge on the Prosecuting Section and deposed that the sentence must be altered and that I must stand my trial according to the request of the Procurator-General.1 The other two judges resisted, but finally they consented to a modification of the sentence and decreed that I should be tried for ‘excess of defence’, though they refused to alter the definition of the crime. ‘Excess of defence’ constitutes extenuating circumstances and diminishes the penalty by two-thirds. The Procurator-General, still dissatisfied, appealed to the Court of Cassation, asking that my acquittal should be revoked and that I should appear before the Court of Assizes on a charge of intentional manslaughter. The Court of Cassation could not countenance such an act of injustice. It confined itself therefore to annulling the sentence of the Prosecuting Section, and decreed that the case should come up again before the Court of Cagliari itself to be re-examined by other judges. This persecution was so flagrant that a general in the Fascist militia is said to have spoken to the Duce about it, expressing the opinion that the scandal was too great, and d­amaging to Fascism itself. Mussolini replied that I should be judged outside Sardinia, by impartial judges, at Chieti in Southern Italy. The general was dismissed from his post. Had I been brought to trial before the Court of Assizes at Chieti I should certainly have received the maximum sentence. The Fascist Government tried all its most scandalous cases there. It became famous owing to the trial of the Fascists who murdered Matteotti; they received the lightest possible sentences, and the jury, formed entirely of Fascists, frequently shook hands with the accused during the proceedings. The Fascists who, during the tragic night of October 3rd 1925, in Florence, had killed the lawyer Consolo before   In Italy the Procurator-General is appointed by the Government, and is more in the position of a police official than a magistrate. 1

96  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist the eyes of his wife and children, and those who, on the same occasion, had murdered the ex-deputy Pilati in his bed beside his wife, were acquitted by the jurors of Chieti in May 1926. My three new judges at Cagliari put up a really heroic resistance to the pressure brought to bear upon them. They acquitted me for legitimate defence, and registered my acquittal at the Chancery before the Chief Justice had had time to intervene, as he had done on the previous occasion. I am glad to record this example of courage in honour of the Italian judicature at a time when so many judges, especially those of the highest rank and including the President of the Supreme Court himself, had completely submitted to the will of the political rulers of Italy. The fury of the Fascists knew no bounds. There were immediate demonstrations against my judges, and Signor Pili resumed his Press campaign against me. Several leading F­ascists openly demanded that I should be lynched on the spot. As a result of my acquittal I ought to have been set at liberty at once, and the order for my release was, in fact, communicated to me in due course. But the prisons are under the control of the Ministry of the Interior, not the judicature, and the prison authorities were ordered to keep me where I was ‘in the interests of public order’. During these days I was suffering from high fever, with inflammation of the bronchial tubes and the pleura, and consequently I was unable to move from my bed. I was transferred from my damp and draughty cell to the infirmary, where I was kept under the strictest supervision for fear I should attempt to escape. Even at night inquiries came from the Prefecture to make certain I was still there. After ten days I received a half-sheet of type-written paper, which informed me that the Provincial Fascist Internment Commission had sentenced me to deportation for five years as a ‘confirmed adversary’ of the regime. These commissions had been set up in every province. They consisted of five members: a Procurator-General, an officer of the carabineers, an officer of the Fascist militia, the provincial chief of police, and the Prefect. Their business was to deal with the internment of opponents of Fascism. The political prisoner never saw these judges and was given no opportunity of defending himself. He was merely informed of his sentence. My doctors declared that internment in one of the islands would be fatal to my health, on account of the damp climate and sea air. All the same, the order came a few days later from Rome that I was to be transferred to the small island of Lipari, which lies between Sicily and the mainland. ‘He will die a natural death, without our having to interfere,’ explained Signor Pili triumphantly to the Fascists, who still thirsted for my life. My fever was still high. The prison doctor refused to countenance my departure, and according to the prison regulations, if a doctor considered it harmful to move a patient, his transfer had to be postponed. There was much telephoning between the Prefecture and the prison, and the political authorities declared that they ‘assumed full responsibility’ for any possible consequences. But the doctor would not give in. Italy is full of these humble and unknown heroes who put their duty before everything else. Finally another doctor was sent to see me. He carefully examined my tongue, and the following day I received orders to leave. I was not even allowed to say good-bye to my mother.

Chapter XXII  97 The city was in a ferment. Troops surrounded the prison, and while driving to the port I saw nothing but carabineers, police, and Fascist militia. All traffic was suspended and the port deserted. But as I left the shore with my guards a fishing-boat sailed swiftly in before the breeze and passed within a few yards of us. A young and sun-bronzed fisherman who was in it recognized me and realized what was happening. Standing up in the bow, he cried: ‘Long live Lussu! Long live Sardinia!’ It was my island’s farewell to me. The patrols on the quay threw themselves on the boat as it landed; I had barely time to see the fisherman surrounded by the armed throng and disappear.

CHAPTER XXIII

POLITICAL prisoners in Italy travel as though they were common criminals. Handcuffed, foodless, and without water to drink, they are conveyed in ‘cell-carriages’ by trains that slowly traverse the country, stopping every evening to allow the prisoners to be given food and to sleep in the ‘transit prisons’. For transfer by sea they would be crowded in the hold of a steamer with the cattle. In my state of health such a journey was literally impossible: they would have had to take me on a stretcher. I was therefore permitted to travel second class, paying for my own ticket and for those of the carabineers who accompanied me. The journey from Cagliari to Trapani in Sicily takes eighteen hours. The sea was calm, and after a year in prison the open air and sunlight gave me a sense of exhilaration, but my fever was still high and I could scarcely stand. From Trapani we went on to Palermo, and from Palermo by train to Milazzo, where we arrived late at night. I remember that night well, because the carabineers, instead of taking me to the prison, allowed me to stay in one of the station waiting-rooms. Some railway employees were clearing up the room as I entered, and when they heard my name they gathered round me, bringing cushions for me to lie on, and offering me hot coffee. Then came confidences. Mussolini should disguise himself as a political prisoner to learn what his railwaymen think of him personally and of his régime, The next morning, with as much circumspection as if they were handing me a bomb, they offered me a small bunch of flowers. At mid-day I boarded the ship for Lipari. As we approached the island it appeared enchantingly beautiful. To the east, Stromboli, with its smoking volcano, stands out against Calabria, and to the south-west the little island of Vulcano guards the way to Milazzo. Lipari is the largest of the islands to which deportees are sent, and the conditions there are better than in any of the other penal settlements. All the same, the climate is tropical in summer; drinking-water easily runs short and has to be brought over from the mainland. The deportees are all confined to an area of a few hundred yards square, and are not allowed to speak to the inhabitants of the little town. They live, in fact, cut off from the world. Foreign journalists who have visited the island have only spoken with the police. An American journalist who came to Lipari at Christmas 1927 to see his friend the exdeputy Morea, was not allowed to land. Every stranger who comes to the island is carefully searched and watched. ‘This is a place to get out of as soon as possible,’ I said to myself as I stepped ashore, utterly exhausted. I was taken to the director’s office, where my handcuffs were removed, and I was given a booklet containing the regulations in force. The carabineers who had brought me seemed glad that their mission was accomplished; they had treated me with much kindness. The director of the colony took charge of my money: he did not address a single word to me. As I left his office I found myself surrounded by friends who had been awaiting my arrival. As in prison, news travels swiftly and mysteriously in the internment camps, and

Chapter XXIII  99 a group of ex-deputies were waiting to greet me, together with the well-known lawyer Torrigiani, Grand Master of the Freemasons, who was regarded by the Fascists as a most dangerous personage. I soon discovered that I was being closely watched by police in plain clothes. This was an exceptional measure on the island, and applied only to Torrigiani and myself. Mussolini was afraid that international freemasonry would abduct Torrigiani from Lipari; the discovery that I too was being treated as a person of international importance flattered me not a little. To be constantly shadowed seems a matter of little moment. It is, however, extremely irritating. To leave one’s house and to be followed; to speak, and to be overheard; to stop, knowing that the other has stopped too; to enter a café or a shop and always to see the same face at the door; not to be able to shake hands with a passer-by without one’s shadow taking note of it—all this becomes a very great strain on the nerves. How many times, by day and night, when taking refuge in my own room from patrols and watchers, have I not found myself again face to face with my ‘shadow’, who had walked in to the house to make certain of my presence there! Many of my friends advised me to complain. But where could one lodge a protest? The orders came from Rome; I should have had to appeal to the Duce himself in his capacity of Minister of the Interior. I have always thought no spectacle more humiliating than that of impotence protesting, so I refused to complain, and comforted myself with the thought that one fine day they would come to find me and I should not be there. Among the political prisoners on the island were a number of workmen who had been arrested for hostility towards Fascism and deported more or less en masse. As they had belonged to no political party, half of them had been officially assigned by the police to the Communist Party and half to the Anarchist. Twenty citizens of Monterotondo, near Rome, were deported for having attended the funeral of a workman known to be a Socialist. Among them were two women, one the mother of five children, the other of three. They had never concerned themselves with politics and went to the funeral simply as relatives of the dead man. The police designated them all ‘the Monterotondo communist group’. The deportees were all opponents of the Fascist regime, but not guilty of any crime against it. Had they been so they would have been dealt with by the Special Fascist Tribunal, and sentenced to prison or to death. Acquittal by the Special Tribunal (a not very frequent occurrence) is, however, almost always followed by deportation to the islands. On one occasion a group of young men—lawyers, teachers, and engineers—were denounced to the Tribunal for having endeavoured to form a secret society with the aim of reviving parliamentary institutions in Italy. The Tribunal intended to condemn them all, with or without proof of their guilt, but several senators and ex-ministers were implicated in the affair and to avoid an open scandal the Tribunal acquitted them and they were all sent to an internment camp. Some of the deportees were Germans from the Southern Tyrol and Slavs from Venezia Guilia. One of the Germans, a doctor, accustomed to an alpine climate, died from fever at Lipari. There was much illness there, but the small hospital existing for the deportees was entirely inadequate for their needs. Besides the political deportees, there were also a number of common criminals on the island, and a small band of dissident Fascists—individuals who, having been too unruly or

100  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist too incautious in their talk, had been removed by the political authorities for fear of their having a bad effect on discipline. Some of them had been sent to the internment camp simply as agents provocateurs, with the aim of inciting the political prisoners to acts or words for which they could be denounced. Letters coming to interned persons were always opened, censored, and often confiscated, while those who corresponded with them had their names added to the list of political suspects, and so endangered their own freedom. I consequently never wrote to any one except my mother, or to friends who, being already interned on other islands, had nothing to lose. To send letters except through the police was to risk imprisonment up to six months. The five hundred prisoners on Lipari were guarded day and night by about four hundred officers and men of the Fascist militia, the carabineers, and the police. Motor-boats equipped with machine-guns and wireless, and other armed craft controlled the coast, while constant touch was kept by wireless with the naval bases of Messina, Palermo and Trapani. The Government offered the political prisoners common quarters in the barracks of the old castle, yet even the poorest would undergo almost any hardship to have a room of their own, however squalid. They were allowed to rent apartments in the town if within the special zone; but very few of the interned had any private means or could get financial help from relatives, while fewer still were able to find work in the place. In my time all the rest had to live on the Government allowance of ten lire a day, later reduced to five; no increase was given to those permitted to have their families with them. So small a sum was hopelessly inadequate for the necessities of life, and economy became a fine art among the deportees; but, even so, privation was universal and the diseases of privation, especially tuberculosis and dysentery, were consequently widespread. Condemned to idleness, the deportees found relief in walking, talking, and reading. But there was a rigorous censorship of books, and the small library they had collected was soon suppressed altogether. Hundreds of volumes were confiscated as dangerous to the regime: every book on the French and Russian revolutions, all works by Russian writers, and all works by freethinkers such as Voltaire, Mazzini, and Anatole France. Only Bernard Shaw was respected. It was a bad moment for his admirers. The regulations stated that it was forbidden to talk of politics, on penalty of imprisonment. And what, then, should political prisoners talk of? Of everything, including politics, provided the terminology were adapted to the occasion. It is quite possible to talk of Fascism, for instance, for hours on end without ever mentioning it by name. A novice would require some enlightenment, but with a little practice one soon masters the art. Up till 1928, schools, organized by the deportees, existed at which lectures on different subjects were given. They were then suppressed. Time for outdoor exercise in the limited zone was carefully regulated. Roll-calls were frequent, at all hours of the day or night, and any breaking of the rules in force was punished by from three to six months in prison. There were dozens of regulations. One of them ran: ‘Deportees are forbidden to behave in an equivocal manner.’ Those who escaped sentences under this regulation could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Every day the prisoners had to be reminded of the power of the Fascist regime. The bugles from the castle sounded Fascist calls; the militia paraded the streets, jeering at

Chapter XXIII  101 the impotent political adversaries of the Government. When I was in the island, actual p­rovocation on the part of the Fascists was not common, but later it became officially encouraged. The officers of the Fascist militia themselves gave the example, and when the deportees were goaded into retaliation they were arrested. Between September 1929 and the end of 1931 two hundred and seventy-two deportees were sentenced for ‘assaulting the Fascist militia’. In addition, the Fascist agents provocateurs had always to be guarded against. This profession soon became a very profitable one under Mussolini’s rule. The agent provocateur would arrive on the island in the guise of a political deportee, and everybody, except the police, would take him to be one. He would then begin to suggest plans and conspiracies for overthrowing the regime. How the regime was to be overthrown from Lipari was not clear, but though the majority might be suspicious, there were always a few ingenuous souls ready to listen. Wholesale arrests would follow. In 1927 at Christmas, two hundred and fifty deportees were arrested in a single night because an imaginary ‘plot’ had been denounced by two spies, in the hope of reward. Fifty of the accused spent a year in prison; they were all subsequently acquitted, and returned again to their life of internment. Such incidents were repeated more than once. To this form of persecution must be added the increased aggressiveness of the Fascist militia as time went on. From words it passed to deeds. If the regime were going through some crisis or other, the Fascists would take violent action to prove that it was unshaken; if it acquired prestige for any reason, they wished to give tangible proof of its growing power. In either case it would be the deportees who suffered. In the winter of 1930 some of them were so badly beaten that they had to be taken to hospital, and one of them, a young university student named Campanile, remained there for three months. One evening in December 1929 a goat sneezed near the borders of the limited zone. The Fascist sentries were startled. Could this be a signal for insurrection on the part of the political prisoners? They levelled their rifles and cried, ‘Who goes there?’ but the goat did not reply, and they promptly opened fire. All the other sentries threw themselves on the ground in a panic and joined in the fusillade. The bugles at the castle sounded the alarm. The militia sprang to arms, and the battle soon became furious. Even the motor-boats in the port opened fire, and the gunboat fired its solitary gun towards the open sea. Finally the firing died down, as the Fascists came to an end of their ammunition. Victory was theirs. That evening it was found that thirty-five deportees and sixteen of the civil population had been wounded. Caught unawares in the open, they had had no time to take cover. The following week the militia was replaced by another Fascist division from northern Italy. The new-comers abandoned the use of fire-arms, such modern weapons being only suitable, they considered, for use in open battle. For ordinary purposes less spectacular methods were more efficacious. In proof of which they seized a deportee named Milo, who was guilty of having spread accounts of the recent ‘battle’, and shut him up in a cell. They then stripped him, flogged him unmercifully, and finally poured salt water over him. Another deportee, a journalist, was arrested and left naked all night in a damp cell. These examples soon multiplied, and gradually the new methods were perfected. Salt water was replaced by vinegar, and flogging limited to the soles of the feet. Sometimes, indeed, on special occasions these methods were all used together. A deportee from my island was flogged both on the body and the soles of his feet, after which he had salt and vinegar

102  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist rubbed into his wounds. As he bore this treatment without uttering a word, he was then held down on a table and given intestinal injections of salt water, vinegar, and pepper. A deportee’s life was of course respected. Since the death penalty had been restored, it was the business of the regular State tribunals, not of the Fascist rank and file, to apply it. But in certain circumstances it would appear inopportune to wait for legal preliminaries, and summary justice would then be resorted to. A deportee named Filipich, who was an Istrian Slav, was flogged to death on January 21st 1930, and another named Sollazzo, a workman from Parma, also died from injuries inflicted by the militia. The first was guilty of declaring himself a Slav, not an Italian; the second, of criticizing the Fascist regime. In the small community of an internment camp the murder of one of its inmates assumes the proportions of a family tragedy. In both the preceding cases mass arrests were made by the Fascists to prevent unpleasant consequences. When the Fascist Tribunal had condemned any anti-Fascist to death in Italy, the militia celebrated this triumph in Lipari. They would issue forth with drum and trumpet, singing songs of victory, while the deportees shut themselves up in their dwellings and waited for the frenzy to pass. Sound nerves were necessary for such a life, and not every one was able to stand it. Two deportees hanged themselves in their rooms: one in 1929 and the other in 1930.

CHAPTER XXIV

How could an escape be made from such an inferno? This was the problem that every deportee on the island was continually trying to solve. The regulations permitted the use of fire-arms against any one found attempting to get away, and the law imposed a sentence of not less than three years’ imprisonment and a fine of twenty thousand lire. Nevertheless, every one was constantly discussing plans for escape—by boat, by aeroplane, or by balloon. The subject became a veritable obsession. I intended to escape, and from my first day on Lipari I regulated my life with this end in view. No one interned on the island had ever succeeded in getting away, and what was difficult for the others was made even harder for me, subjected as I was to special s­urveillance. A week after my arrival I made a mental note of two points on the coast within the zone reserved for the deportees. Approach to the sea at these places was intercepted by steep cliffs. No one ever attempted to break their necks by descending these precipices, and even if one had succeeded in reaching the shore it would have been impossible to get away, because these two points were visible to the sentries all along the coast. In consequence they were not guarded, and the police merely watched the ways of access to them. I concluded, therefore, that once reached, it was from here alone that escape could be made. I went to live in a house a few hundred yards from both points. From it I could get away in four different directions by means of the neighbouring roofs; another advantage was that it had a high terrace facing the sea. The choice of this house subsequently proved to have been an excellent one. I accustomed myself to going out only twice a day—at midday for exactly half an hour, and in the late afternoon for exactly one hour. If the weather was bad, I stayed in. So strictly did I keep to this routine that I was never seen outside my house at any other time, and my friends used to say that the inhabitants of Lipari set their watches by my walks, as the people of Königsberg are said to have done by those of Immanuel Kant. I thus earned among my guards, firstly, the reputation of a man who for nothing in the world would change his habits or interrupt his hours of study, and secondly that of a poor invalid who was afraid above all things of taking cold. On my walks I always went the same way, down the main street of the town and then along the beach. The police considered this spot best adapted for an escape and made it an object of especial vigilance. Suspicion was increased by my lingering there, and the guards were trebled. But the place I had in mind for an escape was in precisely the opposite d­irection. Two weeks after my arrival I had already made a plan of escape with two friends. It was to take place on Christmas night, but it fell through owing to two unforeseen occurrences: one of the friends, who was indispensable to the undertaking, was arrested among the two hundred and fifty deportees accused of a ‘plot’ against the regime, as already recounted; and I myself had a return of my pleurisy and was in bed with a high temperature.

104  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist This illness prevented my flight for the time being, but it facilitated it for the future. The authorities looked on me as a physical wreck, and the supervision over me slackened. Moreover, while forced to remain in bed, although visited at intervals by the police, I was able, undisturbed, to discuss new plans with my friends. It was when my illness was at its height, in January 1928, that Carlo Rosselli and Ferruccio Parri were brought to Lipari, both sentenced to five years’ internment. Carlo Rosselli comes of a family of patriots, and it was in the house of his grandparents, at Pisa, that Giuseppe Mazzini died in 1872. At thirty years of age Rosselli was already a veteran of anti-Fascism. His house in Florence was sacked by the Fascists in July 1925, and a few months later he was assaulted, unarmed, at Genoa, while on his way to lecture at the School of Economics there. In the spring of 1926, when the opposition papers were everywhere being suppressed and their editors and staffs imprisoned, Rosselli had the audacity to found an anti-Fascist weekly, but it was suppressed in the following November, together with all the other opposition papers that had resisted until then. In December 1926 he organized the escape from Italy of Filippo Turati, the seventy-year-old leader of the Reformist (right‑wing) Socialist Party, whose life had been constantly threatened by the Fascists. Ferruccio Parri had a distinguished war record, and afterwards joined the staff of the great Milanese daily, the Corriere della Sera, which he left when the Fascists took it over. He was not a Socialist; in England he would have been a follower of Mr. Baldwin, but he was indignant at the treatment meted out to the Socialists, and co-operated with Rosselli in Turati’s escape. Having smuggled the old man safely out of the country they were both immediately arrested on their return to Italy, and after a sensational trial at Savona in September 1927 were condemned to ten months’ imprisonment. This was followed by deportation. To find myself with these two men on Lipari greatly lightened the burden of my m­isfortunes; they were the personification of generosity, unselfishness and daring. The first time that Rosselli and I were alone together we found that we both intended to escape. We thereupon decided to act together, and took two others, Francesco Nitti and Gioacchino Dolci, into our confidence. Parri we could not ask to join us, because his health was bad, and family circumstances forced him to remain in Italy, We decided to tell him nothing. Nitti was a southern Italian, and nephew of the former Prime Minister. His ‘crime’ was that of bearing the name of one of the men most hated by Mussolini, and of having been suspected of anti-Fascist activities. He had already been in several of the other island camps—Favignana, Ustica, and Lampedusa. Dolci was a Roman workman of exceptional intelligence and education; he was a charming character, diffident as a girl and courageous as a lion. We four formed an ‘escape club’, and set ourselves to study the Mediterranean in all its aspects. Nitti specialized in rocks, cliffs, and coasts; Rosselli in navigation; whilst I plunged into astronomical observations. Together, we reached a certain competence, but singly we should have speedily drowned if left to our own devices at sea. Rosselli had two advantages: he was well-off, and he had an English wife, who had borne her share in our political struggle with great courage. She obtained permission to join her husband in Lipari, and intended to escape with him, thinking nothing, like a true Englishwoman, of adventuring her life at sea. But because of her little boy, whom she did

Chapter XXIV  105 not want to leave to the care of others, we succeeded in dissuading her. She was influenced in making up her mind on this point by my astronomical studies: one evening I mistook the pole star for Mars, and this proved decisive. Signora Rosselli wisely resolved not to entrust the safety of her only child to us. Her collaboration, however, was very valuable. Owing to pressure exerted in London by her relatives, the Italian Government allowed her a passport to visit England, and she was thus able to travel freely and to keep us in touch with our accomplices abroad. Without her help and her husband’s means it is probable that we should never have achieved anything beyond fruitless studies of navigation and astronomy in our solitary observatory at Lipari. In the spring of 1928 Professor Salvemini succeeded in getting into touch with us from abroad. For Salvemini, Mussolini preserves an implacable hatred, and in justification of the Duce it must be confessed that the distinguished historian does his best to deserve it. To the list of all his other crimes against the Fascist regime he thus added that of concerning himself with us, and in organizing our rescue he was able to rely on three of his friends, exiles like himself, one of whom acted admirably as chief of staff in the enterprise. Given this external help, we abandoned all our former plans, and directed every effort to the realization of the one that our friends abroad were preparing. As far as we were concerned, the scheme was simple enough: we were to swim out into the harbour from one of the two points I had already fixed on, and be picked up by a boat coming in from the open sea. The sun, disappearing at sunset behind the heights which dominate the little city, left the port in deep shadow, so that from the land nothing could be seen of what was happening a few hundred yards out to sea. The two points I have mentioned were within this area of shadow, which remained in darkness only until lit by the moon. Consequently the most suitable time for the undertaking would be the week after full moon, that is to say, when the moon did not rise until well after sunset. But after sunset we were obliged to be indoors, and half an hour later visits of inspection were always made to see that we were all in our own quarters. To be found in the streets after that hour was to be sent straight off to a cell in the castle. The only time therefore during the whole twenty-four hours in which it would be possible to get away was the half-hour between the disappearance of the sun behind the hills and the visit of inspection. The boat that was to take us off would have to arrive in the port of Lipari from the open sea neither before nor after that half-hour. If it came before it would be seen; if later, to attempt escape would be to court disaster. There was also danger to be feared from the motor-boats that guarded the port. We studied their ways carefully, reporting them to our friends. The craft coming to rescue us would have to have a speed of at least twenty knots, as those that might follow could reach eighteen. Moreover, we should need half an hour’s start in order to get out of range of their machine-guns; but we could count on this half-hour even if our escape were discovered at once, because a certain interval of disorder was inevitable between discovery and pursuit. The friends who came to fetch us would bring arms and ammunition with them, so that, if attacked, we would be able to defend ourselves. In any case, luck would have to play its part. The plan was admirable, and, in fact, it succeeded, though a year later than we had i­ntended. The first attempts failed.

CHAPTER XXV

IN March 1928 I resumed my daily walks at fixed times, but they were shorter, as I was convalescing from my illness. I always appeared muffled up to the ears, but at home I accustomed myself by means of cold douches to the long immersion in the sea which was to be an indispensable part of our new plan of escape. We hoped to get away in June. In May four prisoners escaped from the castle, intending to take ship for Calabria, but their confederates failed them, and they remained in hiding on the island. The whole garrison was in arms; motor-boats scoured the sea, and flying squads beat up the island in all directions. The fugitives were recaptured, and paid for their temerity with imprisonment. After this, the deportees were more strictly watched than ever. During June, July, August, September, and October we failed to make our attempt Some obstacle intervened every time; all our plans had to be re-made, and a new and favourable phase of the moon waited for. I spent much time on my terrace observatory, and came to learn a great deal about the heavens. How slowly the phases of the moon seemed to pass! In September another prisoner tried to escape. He boarded a German steamship laden with pumice, but the captain dared not harbour him and handed him over to the Fascists. The surveillance became still closer. Our nerves were on edge, for on November 17th our attempt was to be made. We were to meet our rescuers at 6.30 p.m., and by different routes we all reached our rendezvous. Having disguised myself carefully, I had slipped past my guards unrecognized, and the others too had made their way to the shore without arousing suspicion. The weather was as bad as it could be and the sea extremely rough, but we plunged into the icy water, swam out a hundred and fifty yards, and waited over half an hour, keeping only our heads above the surface of the water and ready to dive the moment we heard a suspicious sound, Our rescuers did not come. It was a bitter disappointment, and we returned in silence, deeply discouraged. The bugles at the Castle had already sounded, and in a few moments, we knew, our houses would be inspected. However, our luck had not wholly deserted us, for we succeeded in getting back unseen and unsuspected. All the same, we passed a d­espairing night: a whole year of waiting had ended in failure. Two days later, as had been arranged, we repeated our attempt, though this time with little hope, Again our luck was out Had we been better able to judge of the weather conditions elsewhere we should have realized that during those ill-fated days a storm such as had not been experienced for many years was raging in the Mediterranean. No small craft could live in such a sea. We are none the less grateful to those who were ready on that occasion to risk life and liberty for us, though fortune did not favour their attempt.

Chapter XXV  107 The fair weather season had passed and winter winds now prevailed in the Straits. We were obliged to give up all hope of escape for months to come. The usual wretched life went on, the usual daily routine, and the usual surveillance. Dolci finished his sentence that winter and returned to Italy. He volunteered to make his way secretly across the frontier, organize another attempt, and come himself to fetch us. No one knew so well as he the difficulty of the undertaking and the geography of the place. He made this offer, so fraught with danger for himself, very simply. It is he, and the pilot of the motor-boat, who are the real heroes of our enterprise. We fixed our next attempt for June 1929, and meanwhile beguiled our time in making further plans in case this one failed. On the appointed evening, no longer four but three in number, we again swam out and waited, but again in vain. ‘It is written in the Book of Fate,’ said Nitti as we returned, dripping wet, ‘that we shall die on this island or in prison. It is a brilliant career; why should we change it? I protest against this absurd obsession of ours to die free men.’ We learned afterwards that the motor-boat had broken down en route. We arranged to try yet again on July 27th. I continued to take my two walks as usual, seeing only my guards and my few friends. Rosselli was his cheerful self, and Nitti gloomier than ever. At sunset on the appointed day they walked across the main square discussing philosophic problems like good, docile prisoners; then they separated. I was rapidly disguising myself in my rooms, and as I issued forth the detectives, who usually knew me a mile off, did not recognize me. We all three met at the rendezvous, but rather late. Rosselli and I had both found patrols blocking our way, and he had narrowly escaped arrest. The sea was calm, and as we plunged in there was at first nothing but darkness and silence around us. Then suddenly across the water there came the throb of an engine, and a motor-boat drew near. The signal given was the expected one and Dolci was in the bow. Without a word we climbed on board. Describing a narrow circle we shot away, leaving behind us in the port a white shining pathway on a sea smooth as oil. With doused lights the motor-boat passed rapidly through a fleet of fishing-vessels. We changed our soaking clothes for others our friends had brought, and in seaman’s rig took up our duties on board. On shore, as we had foreseen, the police and militia had completely lost their heads and the wildest confusion prevailed. Pursuit only began after considerable delay, by which time we had a long start. And the darkness of the night was in our favour. When dawn broke we were far on our course. One of us, scrutinizing the horizon through a pair of glasses, made out the dark silhouette of a ship, and gave warning. But she turned out to be nothing more formidable than a steamship of the mercantile marine, and we changed our course to avoid her. Of our pursuers we never saw a trace. At long last we sighted land, and knew that we were safe. Freedom lay before us. Freedom—and exile. Should we ever see our country again? ‘Is Fascism going to last for ever?’ asked some one, suddenly despondent. ‘It looks like it. In these days dictators are having things all their own way,’ said another. And we started a pessimistic discussion on the subject of the general state of Europe.

108  Enter Mussolini: Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist ‘Reaction is gaining ground everywhere,’ maintained the first speaker. ‘The world is going to the right.’ We were approaching the shore, and our spirits rose again. ‘The world,’ concluded one who, riper than the rest of us in years and perhaps in experience, had listened in silence while we talked, ‘is going neither to the right nor to the left. It is still continuing to revolve on its own axis, with periodic eclipses of the sun and the moon!’